


Continua Ex Nihilo

by Blissymbolics



Series: No Promises [2]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Coming Out, Depression, Established Relationship, Homophobia, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2019-09-21 14:58:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 86,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17045834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blissymbolics/pseuds/Blissymbolics
Summary: Public exposure was always going to change their lives. They anticipated hardship, but that doesn’t mean they were prepared for it.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> So this is a sequel to [No Promises](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15891888/chapters/37033959)! I probably won't have the first real chapter up for a couple more weeks, but I wanted to write this to sort of set the tone.  
> The full story is shaping up to be 100k+ and will be quite a bit angstier than the last installment. But don't worry, I'm not going to sacrifice months of my life for a sad ending!

A very long time ago, there lived in the kingdom of Xerxes an alchemist.  ~~Before long~~  Soon he started wanting (desiring?) more power. He said  ~~in his village~~  to the followers/disciples in his village: if you all relinquish to me your alchemy, I will build/create for you many gifts/good works.

His followers agreed. The alchemist designed a matrix (ie array) that  ~~may~~  could transfer/exchange the alchemy between two bodies. He mixed ink with his own blood, then tattooed the array onto each one. Next, mixed with ink the blood of his disciples and branded/marked the arrays onto himself. Through this method, it linked/bonded their souls/minds/life forces.

Originally, he held his promise. He raised a beautiful city, told (caused?) the crops never to die. He pulled/lifted  ~~in the form~~  water from below the soil in the form/shape of a clean lake. He held the alchemy of one hundred, but still desired more. He forced/coerced more to accept the tattoo,  ~~finally~~ until he had barely a single uncia of empty skin.

The arrays now layered (overlapped) causing the power to progress unstable/unmanageable/dangerous. He destroyed mountains then sunk (buried) the city in sand. His disciples were terrified. They all together decided to cut their tattoos so that their alchemy could reenter themselves.

Now the man possessed nothing. He lived in destitute. He was impossible to hide because his body was engulfed (covered) with arrays. He prayed for death, but one day his young daughter became incredibly sick. She swallowed her own blood (what?) and burned hotter than fire. No one  ~~to give her~~  offered to give her help because her father was an evil being/monster/demon. He cried while she grew weaker and weaker. When she stood at the gate (portal of truth?) he decided to gift her his alchemy, and she gained new energy. Now the man truly had nothing except for his child. But he was full of gratitude.

 

* * *

 

 

_Nata alma ini perpetua pausa_

_Infans mitis abi carnalibus sensis_

_Nata beata dormi sub mea anima_

_Infans mollis tolle istud onus moeroris_

_Terra maestitia plena muni domus in calida_

_Tege corpus rege pectus da mihi saporem pacis_

 

Nourishing newborn (female), enter everlasting rest.

Gentle baby, leave behind  ~~carnal~~ worldly sensations.

Blessed newborn, sleep under my soul/spirit.

Soft baby, lift/raise this burden of mourning.

Earth full of sadness, build a home in hot water (amniotic fluid?)

Cover the body, rule the heart/soul, give to me a taste of peace.

 

 


	2. Don't Wait Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! Just three quick things:  
> 1\. Why yes, I did change the title. Thank you for noticing!  
> 2\. I drew up a  
> [layout of Roy's house](http://blissymbolics.tumblr.com/post/181255405406/i-finally-drew-up-a-layout-of-roys-house-so-i-can) if you'd like a visual.  
> 3\. As the story goes on, if there’s anything you’d like me to add to the tags, please let me know! I might not be aware of how intense things are since you tend to go numb to your own writing pretty quick. Like I might not realize that a sentence is potentially triggering because all I can see is the funky word order. So don’t hesitate to let me know. If possible, I’d like to keep the tags fairly broad to avoid spoilers. Thank you!  
> Now then, is everybody ready for some EXPOSITION!

On his way out, Roy gave him one very simple directive:

“Don’t wait up.”

He said that the final results wouldn’t be announced until sunrise at the earliest. It could be days before all of the parliamentary elections were fully tallied; weeks once you factored in the inevitable recounts.

Roy must have known he was wasting his breath when he told Ed to get some sleep. Some of the small precincts started calling their races around eight in the evening. Ed kept his ears hooked to the radio for nearly four hours, anxiously flicking it off when bad news crossed the airwaves, then switching it back on again when his masochism grew too hungry. Around midnight, he violently unplugged the device and banished himself to the bathtub upstairs.

His stress levels began cresting the charts several months ago when the election really started to pick up steam. Over the course of the past week, that stress has mutated into paralyzing fear. It’s haunted him in the endless reams of articles, the political broadcasts that air day and night, and the aura of dread that’s been strangling Roy despite his admirable attempt to keep his work and home life quarantined.

It’s the kind of fear that lingers beyond distraction. The kind that ravages your sleep, cripples your sex life, and infiltrates your mind the second you find some glimmer of contentment. It’s funny since in the grand scheme of things, the consequences of the election will be far more insignificant than what they faced during the Promised Day, yet his adult brain is actively refusing to weigh anything on a sliding scale.

Amestris has never democratically elected a leader before. Even the parliamentary elections were never anything more than thinly-veiled shams designed to prop up the military. The mechanics for a fair election were in place, but the politics had to be built from the ground up, which naturally pitched the country into chaos.

It was a rude awakening when everyone realized that Amestris had no actual political parties. The government had been operating under martial law for decades, even if it was never officially declared. Politics and the military were synonymous. There was no alternative option until now.

Amestris technically remained a dictatorship under Grumman, even though he joyfully spent his two years in office siphoning power to the civilian courts and legislative assembly. The upper echelons of the military watched in silent horror as he churned out bill after bill reassigning new duties to parliament: tax regulation, public infrastructure, food safety regulation, things that the military had no reason to control in the first place.

Grumman passed one last controversial act right before his death: a declaration that non-military citizens were allowed to run for Führer, effectively opening up the playing field to the entire adult population.

The generals couldn’t clench their teeth any longer after that. According to Roy, the senior staff began plotting to depose him on the grounds of mental infirmity. But in hindsight, Grumman was probably more aware of his impending death than anyone suspected. With nothing left to lose, he signed the bill into law less than two weeks before his death.

The brass had hoped that Wolgemut would bring about a change of pace, but he turned out to be Grumman’s successor through and through. With no campaign to worry about, he committed himself to fast-tracking Grumman’s agenda, secure in the knowledge that his enemies wouldn’t risk trying to unseat him with the election less than a year out.

He turned out to be right. Rather than oppose him, the brass pooled all of their money and resources into grooming the perfect candidate.

Unfortunately, things didn’t progress as smoothly as they expected. Once word got out that Mustang wouldn’t be making a run for Führer, the entire country erupted into a rat race of potential candidates with eleven of them making it to the final ballot.

These past nine months have been absolute pandemonium. Like plants sprouting prematurely, dozens of campaigns were frosted over after being exposed to the elements. While most candidates fell somewhere on a sliding scale between support for the military and support for parliament, many orbited around specific issues or clung to ideologies without any sense of governance.

Roy never intended to take on such a prominent role in the electoral process, but he reluctantly threw himself into the mayhem once it became clear that the field could generously be described as a shitshow. In addition to his duties as Liaison Officer to the East, he spent his precious spare time calling in favors, rallying support, and vetting candidates down to the candy bars they stole as children.

As the months rolled on, the parliamentary supporters managed to settle on a single candidate: a civilian judge named Hendrik Eckert, who ran on a platform of transparency and fair process. He advocated for full citizenship rights to Ishvalans, better retirement benefits, and improved labor laws. He also had a lesbian granddaughter with whom he was on speaking terms, which gave Roy enough assurance that he would safeguard their interests.

His views were by no means radical, but to the military, the very thought of electing a civilian to the position of Führer was anarchy.

Meanwhile, the military supporters fared far worse. Rather than rallying behind a single candidate, civil war broke out between two: both generals, nearly indistinguishable in their platforms or appearances, but both of them stubbornly refused to concede support to the other; even though the polling clearly showed that they were dividing the votes of the military supporters, giving Eckert a decisive lead.

It was a childish game of chicken. Their colleagues begged them to reach a compromise, but they would hear none of it. Now here they were, on the night of the election, both of them willing to sink the military’s chances rather than swallow their pride and concede to their opponent. The poetic irony of it all was invigorating.

Despite the fact that it would take a miracle upset or widespread voter fraud to knock Eckert down from his lead, that small percent chance of failure still sat at the forefront of his mind, like a cyst with a one percent chance of being cancerous.

What if the military pulls one of its dirty tricks? What’ll they do then? Stage another coup? Assassinate the generals? He might have to dust off his red coat if they’re really going to go through all that shit again.

He gulps in a large breath and sinks below the water, drifting in subspace before exhaling and watching the bubbles break the surface. He’s been drifting in here for hours, but there’s no point in getting out. He’ll be a dysfunctional ball of anxiety no matter where he roams about in the house. At least in here he can submerge himself beneath the water and drown out his thoughts in the acoustics.

There’s nothing he can do except wait for time to do what it does best. The votes have been cast; the outcome decided. No matter what happens, he’ll still be alive on the other side of it.

Suddenly, he hears the unmistakeable sound of the front door opening. The noise causes him to flinch, then go completely still: straining his water-logged ears.

Soon an even set of footfalls begin ascending the staircase. He listens closely, trying to determine whether they sound joyful or sullen. His heart is racing, exacerbated by the heat of the water.

“I’m in the bath!” he calls out, knowing that Roy will check their bedroom first. “It’s unlocked!” he shouts when he hears him approach the door. Time slows to a crawl as the knob rattles and the door creaks open. Ed keeps his eyes fixed on the floor, afraid to see the expression on Roy’s face.

“We won.”

Ed finally lets his eyes snap up, and he’s instantly overwhelmed by the sight of Roy’s smile.

Two simple words, and it’s all over. Months of tension, suddenly gone. Ed stares at him, willing his mouth to match his smile, but the signals get snagged somewhere along the way.

“Positive?” he asks, still hesitant to celebrate just yet.

“Well, the final results haven’t been announced yet, but we’re actually doing better than the polling predicted. We haven’t been getting any reports of military tampering apart from some local situations, so it seems like we’re in the clear.”

Ed lets out a breath that’s been clogging his lungs.

“Thank fuck it’s finally over.”

Roy shuts the door behind him and strips off his uniform jacket.

“I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but we’ll have to go through this all over again in five years,” he says while unbuttoning his shirt cuffs.

“Fuck, don’t remind me,” he groans while pressing his forehead against the edge of the tub. “When you become Führer can you just make this place a dictatorship again so we don’t have to deal with this shit anymore?”

Roy laughs as he begins slipping out the buttons down the front of his shirt.

“But then I’ll never get my 520 cenz back.”

“You’ll be Führer, just raise your salary to cover the difference.”

Roy drops his shirt to the floor and his hands move to unbuckle his belt.

“Before you get too invested in that fantasy, keep in mind that our chances in parliament aren’t set in stone yet.”

“I don’t even want to think about that,” Ed grumbles. “What’re the latest numbers?”

“We had a slight advantage when I left the office. Whatever that means. It’s hard to tell exactly who’s on your side when our political parties don’t even have established platforms yet.”

“Or names.”

“It’s a work in progress.”

Ed shifts forward in the tub as Roy bends over to pull off his socks.

“It was surreal driving home,” Roy says as he takes a step forward and dips his foot in the water. “Every other house had the lights on, but it was dead silent. The streets were completely empty. Even the air felt different.”

Roy steadily sinks down into the water while talking, spreading his legs so that Ed can lean back against his chest. Ed pulls his arms around his middle, adjusting his body and watching the water lap around their combined density.

It’s really over. Just like that, they’re free.

He expected the relief to be more overwhelming, to soothe his mind like morphine. Maybe he conditioned his brain too well. After all, every time his imagination vaguely suggested that they had a chance of winning, he beat that hope down and ground it into abject pessimism. It might take a couple days to climb out of that hole he dug for himself.

But despite his muted response, he’s happy. He’s actually happy. He has to consciously remind himself of that. Otherwise he probably won’t notice until it’s over.

Ed grasps Roy’s hand beneath the water, rubbing his palm with his pruny fingers, feeling his chest rise and fall against his back.

“I can’t believe it’s really over. Whatever happens next, you got the Führership. You did it.”

“It was somewhat of a group effort.”

“Don’t sell yourself short. You’re the one who pulled all of this together. Even if it’s just another five years, we’re safe ’til then.”

Of course that’s not true. There are still infinite possibilities laid out in front of them. A million decisions and unfortunate accidents that could topple the delicate scaffolding they’ve built. All it would take is the will of one person to bring everything crashing down. But he supposes that’s how all of life works.

Roy sighs deeply and hums against his hair.

“Thanks for sticking with me through this. Even the nights when you were asleep by the time I got home, just feeling you breathe while you slept helped drown out everything else.”

That’s a generous statement considering that he didn’t provide help in any way that actually mattered. Sure, he cast his vote and pitched in some donations, but beyond that, he’s spent the last couple months hiding in their house; perusing his father’s notes and forcefully ignoring the mayhem outside of his bubble.

He sighs in return. “If breathing is all I have to do to help you out, then I guess I can be of service for a while longer.”

“I’ll definitely need all the help I can get. Come tomorrow, the brass are going to have a bounty out for my head.”

That’s another issue sitting on Ed’s never-ending list of worries. Roy’s unabashed support for the parliamentary candidate made him an enemy to the majority of the senior staff. The same men who praised Mustang to the moon in the aftermath of the Promised Day, grateful for the promotions they earned through the ousting of their superiors. But as Grumman’s protege, opinions of Roy began to sour as the old man whittled away at their entitlement. Their annoyance grew when Roy started advocating for greater resources to be poured into Ishval. It was a sore topic since most of the brass were willing to pay lip service to Ishval, but when it came time to put money where their mouths were, they became shockingly aloof.

Throughout the entire campaign process, Roy was toeing dangerously close to career suicide. Sure, there were others in the military who supported strengthening parliament, but none as vocal or influential.

Ed can’t let himself think about things like that. He can’t lose himself in hypotheticals just minutes after finally getting some degree of relief. He just has to convince himself that they’ll make it through the next crisis on the horizon. And the one after that. Punctuated periods of misery interspersed between the days of sleepy sex that seem to slip away from memory like silk.

“What time is it?” Ed asks, suddenly aware of how badly his eyes sting.

“About four in the morning.”

They didn’t even have to wait until sunrise.

“You want to go to bed? Or do you have some energy left?”

With both hands braced on either side of the tub, he lifts himself onto Roy’s lap. Roy shifts and wriggles a bit as he situates himself and slowly starts grinding against his soft cock. He’s exhausted down to his bones and the colors of the room are starting to blur. Roy is probably dead on his feet too, but Ed can still feel him responding beneath the lazy circles of his hips.

His brain is such a mess, he can’t even tell if he actually wants it. He feels slightly hard, but that could just be due to the warmth of the water and relief from the news. Still, they haven’t had sex in over a week. It’s the longest they’ve gone without it since they moved in together last March. It’s frustrating how quickly the sensations can fade from memory.

Even if he can’t get off tonight, he’d like nothing more than to mold his body around Roy’s and blanket as many nerves as possible with the feel of his skin.

“That feels nice,” Roy whispers as he leans forward to press a kiss to his shoulder. “But maybe we should relocate to the bedroom. I don’t know about you, but I’m guaranteed to pass out the second we’re finished.”

“Yeah, same.” Also, the thought of dragging himself down a cold hallway immediately after an orgasm sounds like a torture technique.

With an exaggerated groan, he pushes himself into a standing position and wrings his hair over his shoulder before stepping over the edge and bundling himself in a towel. Roy shifts forward to pull the plug from the drain, then follows suit.

“I can’t believe I have to wake up for work in four hours,” Roy laments while he runs a towel down his legs.

“I don’t have class ’til noon, but I haven’t done any of the reading.”

“Are you going to?”

“Fuck no. The lecture’s on Knowles Vector Theory. I know how that shit works. I’m not going to waste my time reading a hundred pages on it.”

To be honest, he’s probably read less than a hundred pages of homework over the course of the entire semester. It’s probably a bad sign that he’s rapidly approaching burn out only halfway through his first term.

When Central University offered him a full scholarship and an easy path to a doctorate, he couldn’t come up with a good reason to turn them down. He never had much interest in going back to school, but he needs the connections and status if he wants to get anywhere, and freeloading off of Roy was starting to get old.

The faculty were surprised, but still supportive when he decided to pursue a degree in theoretical alchemy. Still, there were some who telegraphed their disapproval, implying that he was wasting his talents by resigning himself to the world of chalkboards and graph paper. The annoying thing is that he agrees with them. He fucking hates theoretics, but he still has to fake an interest to hide the fact that there’s no alchemical energy left inside of him.

There are plenty of other fields he could specialize in. Ones that don’t require the ability to transmute: chemistry, biology, astrophysics, the list goes on. But his stupid heart is stubbornly wedded to alchemy, even if he can only reach it via proxy.

At this point, his coursework is little more than a side distraction from his personal research. For the past eight months he’s been buried in the Xerxian language, devouring it with a dedication that can only arise from insecurity. He stupidly thought that the learning process would be easy since he just needed to figure out how to read the language, not write, speak, or comprehend it. But after weeks of trying to power through his father’s notes, he finally admitted defeat and checked out a beginner’s textbook from the library.

He spent the whole summer on the floor of Roy’s library, memorizing conjugation charts and building up his vocabulary. After a month he could stumble through a couple folktales, then some songs; an historical account of a corrupt king and a famous tale about one of their great wars. While he’s decently proficient at this point, it’s still a struggle trying to make sense of the complicated alchemical theories present in his father’s notes; and he hates that his schoolwork has been sucking time out of his research.

He could always change his focus to Xerxian history and culture, but the field isn’t nearly as fashionable as it was several decades ago. They’d probably reduce his funding if he left the hard sciences, and school wasn’t worth the trouble if he had to pay for it.

Besides, he’s fiercely possessive of the Xerxian texts his father left behind. He doesn’t even know what he’s going to do with his translations once they’re finished. He can’t stomach the thought of publishing them, even though he knows that it’s selfish to hoard such a goldmine of information. Those documents were his history, his heritage; all that was left of his father and the culture he would never be a part of. Besides, his connection with Xerxes is the only tether to alchemy he has left.

Once they’ve dried off as much as possible, they gather up their clothes and brave the cold as they hustle to the bedroom. After diving beneath the covers, they cling to each other in a vice embrace, rolling side-to-side to warm up the fabric. There’s still water dripping out of the crevices in his leg and his hair is leaving a halo of dampness on the pillow, but their combined body heat is quickly insulating the covers.

After some lazy foreplay and back and forth ‘I don’t know, what do you want to do?’, Ed finally settles on his side with Roy thrusting between his thighs while stroking him beneath the covers. Roy seems content to do most of the work, so Ed allows himself to relax into the mattress and let Roy handle him how he likes. It’s sweet, and cozy, like a lullaby gently coaxing him to the wave of pleasure that will usher in sleep.

It’s nice. It’s really nice.

Suddenly, a noise breaks in the street: the unmistakeable sound of shattering glass.

It splits through the air, breaking the spell of tranquility and forcing Ed into awareness of his own nakedness, his fight or flight instincts propelling him somewhere terrifying. His senses jolt into hyper-vigilance, his mounting pleasure drained in a split second.

“Did you hear that?” he asks, his eyes trained on the curtains drawn across the window.

They both listen. Ed can feel Roy holding his breath. After a few seconds, Ed picks up the sound of someone in the street babbling incoherently at a disruptive volume.

“Just sounds like someone who had too much to drink,” Roy says.

Sure enough, whoever the man is, his confused muttering grows progressively fainter as he makes his way down the street.

“Right,” Ed replies, his body still frozen on high alert.

“Don’t worry.” Roy twists forward to kiss his check. “I don’t think the mob is attacking my house just yet.”

Ed tries to summon a courtesy laugh, but it just comes out as an exaggerated exhale.

“You okay?” Roy asks with that concerned tone he knows Ed hates.

“Yeah, I’m good.” He squeezes his thighs together to distract him, grinding back and encouraging him to resume his pace. After some admirable restraint, Roy finally falls back into his previous rhythm.

Ed tries to dig for that spark he felt before. The need and drive to get there. He’s still hard, and the pressure from Roy’s hand still feels good, but it’s almost like his nerves have been desensitized. Like his body is actively resisting arousal.

His mind isn’t present anymore. It’s in the world outside. Down in the street among the broken glass; the crack still ringing in his ears. That brief moment of certainty that someone was trying to break into their house. The nauseating dread of someone finding them like this: wrapped in each other with no alibi.

He can’t think about things like that. Not when they’re like this. He squeezes his eyes tight and envisions their house floating in a sea of darkness, like a meteor, or an airlock. They’re completely alone out in space. There’s no one else. The people living through these walls don’t exist. Their neighbors who make smalltalk while they’re taking out the trash. The ones who praise Roy for how generous he is, renting out his spare room to a young, broke student. After all, living costs in Central are skyrocketing.

What would those same people say if they found them like this?

What if they can hear them right now? He could clearly hear the drunk in the street below, and the sound of the front door closing all the way from the bathroom. The Second Lieutenant and his young fiancée sleeping in the bedroom on the other side of this wall can probably hear their moans and gasps if they strain their ears hard enough. All of a sudden, the gentle noises that Roy’s emitting sound deafening.

Panic courses through him just a few seconds later when Roy moans against the back of his neck and comes between his legs. Ed clenches his teeth, resisting the urge to tell Roy to be quiet.

He’s being so fucking stupid. Their houses are separated by two layers of brick and plaster. Of course they can’t hear them. He’s never heard a word through these walls, not even when their neighbors moved in two months ago and transported all of their furniture.

He’s being stupid. So fucking stupid.

Roy is still stroking him, but it’s impossible to find enjoyment when all he can focus on is choking back his voice; swallowing his gasps to the point where his throat is starting to ache. He can come silently. He’s done it many times before. But then Roy will definitely know something’s wrong.

“You sure you’re okay?” Roy asks again, clearly hesitant. He knows how much Ed hates that question. His hand stops moving. Ed is still miles away from finishing.

“Yeah, I’m just really, really tired. I don’t think it’s gonna happen. I keep fading in and out.”

Roy’s hold on his dick slackens, but he doesn’t let go entirely.

Ed hates this. He hates making him feel guilty, or inadequate, but he just can’t right now.

He rolls onto his back, feeling Roy’s cum slide between his thighs. Roy’s expression is difficult to discern in the dark, but there are clear lines of apprehension creased in his brow. Ed raises a hand to rub them away.

“Get some sleep. We’ll do this right tomorrow.”

On any other night, Roy would say something in response. Words of comfort, or concern, or maybe he'd offer to give him a massage instead. But right now, he seems to be struggling to keep his eyes open. They’re so hooded that his sclerae are almost completely hidden beneath his lashes. After a few minutes of gentle hair-stroking, his eyes fall shut and his breathing turns heavy.

Ed waits, and watches, finding comfort in seeing him drift off. Once he seems situated in the second stage of REM, Ed turns away to grab some tissues from the nightstand to clean up the mess between his legs.

Now that Roy’s asleep, the world really is completely silent. The noise in his brain seems to be winding down. His balls ache and the nerves in his dick burn a bit, but it’s nothing he can’t sleep through. He can jerk off in the morning if it’s still a problem. His neurons should reset themselves by then. He just needs some sleep. Exhaustion always aggravates his anxiety, and up until an hour ago, he was experiencing one of the most stressful nights of his life.

It’s all fine. He’s happy. He has to remember that.

He’s happy.

 

 

  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [twitter](https://twitter.com/blissymbolics1) / [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/blissymbolics) / [pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.io/blissymbolics)


	3. No Rest for the Wicked

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year Everyone! Just an extra special heads up, this chapter is really rough on the mental health front.

_…monitoring the situation closely and I see no cause for immediate action. Obviously, if their activities progress beyond peaceful protests, we will have to take more proactive measures. Please give my office a call the week after the election so we can discuss the matter._

_Sincerely, Colonel Husner_

 

As soon as he finishes skimming the last line, his eyes dart to the clock mounted above the door. It’s hardly a quarter past one, and he’s already cleared out his entire inbox. It’s a novel feeling. One he should cherish, considering that the circumstances will likely never be this favorable again.

He folds the letter in half and deposits it in his desk, making a mental note to properly file it sometime later.Then he tosses back the last of his cold coffee and grimaces when a smattering of grounds make it into his mouth. It’s his third cup of the day. His fingers are starting to shake and his stomach feels like a pool of acid. The caffeine might be keeping his heart rate elevated, but he doubts that any blood is actually making it to his brain.

Leaning back in his over-stuffed chair, he allows himself to indulge in a minute of resting his eyes. Maybe two. Ten actually, according to the clock that rudely greets him when he reenters his surroundings. With a groan, he pushes himself upright and reachers for his planner to scribble a note for Monday: _Call Husner,_ giving the two words a swift underline with a stroke of his pen. With that point of order taken care of, he scans through his schedule for the rest of the day, and with a smile, crosses off a number of obligations that never came to fruition:

 ~~_Appointment with Vostre_ ~~ _Cancelled._

 ~~_Appointment with Renault_ ~~ _Cancelled._

 ~~_Council Meeting_ ~~ _Postponed._

If he didn’t know any better, he’d say that his colleagues were giving him the cold shoulder. That would be a reasonable assumption; that is, if Central Command wasn’t currently deserted from the ground up.

He can’t in good conscious judge those who decided to capitalize on a spare sick day, considering that he spent a solid half-hour in bed this morning debating the same. Donning his uniform was certainly a challenge, but he felt apprehensive over missing another day of work. He’s been out of the office so much recently, putting out various fires along the campaign trail. Apart from the grueling backlog he expected to find waiting on his desk, he ultimately decided that he really shouldn’t give his superiors another excuse to justify demoting him.

To his surprise, when he staggered into the office this morning, Hawkeye informed him that his schedule was almost completely empty. It’s surreal. He can’t remember a time when his workload fell anywhere short of overwhelming. But evidently one of the benefits of being a Liaison Officer is that your work is conditional upon the productivity of the parties you’re liaising for; and as it turns out, he’s not the only one who’s been neglecting his duties in the interest of politics.

Throughout the entire campaign cycle, the military seemed to be operating in a world slightly to the left of reality. As Hess and Marchant escalated their discord from subtle backtalk to public ad hominem, most members of the brass lingered in a state of optimistic denial: convinced that the two men would reach a settlement eventually. After all, they were both career generals. They wouldn’t sabotage the military for the sake of a grudge.

Their faith in human rationality was admirable. Really, it was.

It was like watching a train crash in slow motion. As the day of the election drew closer, it felt like the entire government was grinding to a standstill: watching, waiting, bracing for impact. And like a locomotive malfunction, the problem was beyond anyone’s control. No one in a position of authority could publicly endorse either candidate without risking retaliation from the other; so everyone just sat on their hands, paralyzed, waiting for the fallout.

The miserable souls like him who managed to drag themselves to work all looked like they were ready to start curling up behind furniture like dying cats. In a strange way, walking through the halls brought back vivid memories of a day he experienced nearly twenty years ago:

It was the Monday morning after five kids from his school died in a car accident over the weekend. He didn’t know any of them personally, but the air of grieving that suffocated the entire school is something he’ll never forget.

However, he can’t exactly characterize sorrow as the predominant emotion circulating through the vents. Truthfully, it feels more like fear.

Once the brass realized that their chances of retaining the Führership were rapidly deteriorating, all sense of decorum was left to whither as well. With no candidate to prop up on a pedestal, all they could do was peddle propaganda designed to discourage the population from voting against the military.

They broadcasted their auguries in increasingly feverish frequencies: electing a civilian will usher in chaos, enemies will swarm our borders, the sun will fall into the sea, and other apocalyptic proclamations lifted straight from scripture. Page after page of age-old rhetoric distributed in pamphlets and fliers that he saw littering the streets on his drive to work this morning. All that money they spent on tricolor printing now lying flaccid and soiled in the gutter.

Admittedly, their message resonated with a large portion of the population, even if it didn’t earn them enough votes to give either candidate a majority. It’s not surprising that those most susceptible to their rallying cries were active members of the military who feared that Eckert would continue Grumman and Wolgemut’s joint legacy of slashing military funding and redistributing it to the civilian sectors. A fear that he can’t exactly call unfounded.

Divisions of this nature are always bound to arise. They’re an unavoidable hurdle in trying to reform any government structure. Everyone can be ethically opposed to the idea of a dictatorship, right up until uncertainty and personal sacrifice are thrown into the equation. And he empathizes with those who are terrified by the prospect of change. Really, he does.

There’s a knock on the door. His spine instinctively straightens as he brushes the stray hair from his eyes.

“Come in!” he calls, fairly certain that there’s only one person who it could be.

Sure enough, the door opens, and there stands Hawkeye, radiating professionalism despite the fact that she looks even worse for wear than he does. He offered to give her a ride home last night, but she insisted on staying, not content to leave the office until the final results were called, which didn’t occur until 5:13 in the morning.

“Pardon me, sir,” – she shuts the door behind her – “but would you be amenable if I borrowed one of your couches?”

Her eyes shift to one of the two black, leather couches sitting opposite each other in the center of the room. He follows her line of sight and squints in confusion, running her words through his addled brain a few times before processing her request.

“By all means. In fact, I think I might join you.”

She gives a smile that only slightly betrays how delirious she must feel. After flipping the lock on the door shut, she strides over to the couch on his left; closing her eyes as she lowers herself down onto the cushions.

Roy uses his desk as leverage to push himself into a standing position. He cracks his neck to the side and stretches out his shoulders, then ambles over to the parallel couch and collapses onto his back with far less grace than she demonstrated.

“I was going to ask you to wake me up in an hour, but I suppose on a day like today, it hardly matters,” she mumbles.

Roy crosses his arms over his chest and kicks his boots up onto the armrest.

“I think we’ve more than earned this,” he replies while adjusting the pillow behind his head; one that’s really meant more for decoration than comfort.

“Hmm,” she hums in agreement.

Roy shuts his eyes and wills his body to fight against the caffeine polluting his system. Of course now that he’s giving himself permission to relax, a million guilty thoughts start to swarm his head. Obligations he’s been procrastinating on for months. Issues he should educate himself on. There were always reports to read and papers to sign.

The letter he just received from Colonel Husner: it was informing him of a small underground movement propagating in Ishval. Apparently its members are starting to organize public protests advocating for reinstating Ishval’s status as an independent nation.

It’s a fair objective, but unfortunately, Ishval isn’t going to regain its independence anytime soon. The region has always been dependent on crops imported from Eastern Amestris, and the two nations had an amicable trade alliance prior to the annexation: grain in exchange for ore, copper, and other natural metals. With current relations being as tenuous as they are, full liberation would undoubtedly lead to a trade embargo, which would precipitate famine.

The liberation movement may still be in its infancy stages, but it will likely grow as the region regains stability. He really should do more research on the matter. Reach out to the Ishvalan government workers in the region, get their input.

His mind steadily starts to wander down the streets of the capital where he lived for two years. The smell emanating from the hole-in-the-wall bakery that sold everyone their daily bread. The elderly women sitting in the courtyard of the post office stitching headscarves to sell at the market. Someone's young daughter carrying a bucket of water from the communal fountain, only to pour it all across the front steps of her home. That was a custom he never quite understood, but apparently it was so intuitive that he received confused looks when he asked about it.

It just seems like such a waste. The water will dry within the hour anyway. He imagines all the wells and reservoirs running dry. If that happens, then the government will be forced to reroute the irrigation canals to save the populace from drought. The precious few crops that can grow in the arid landscape will whither, resulting in greater dependence on Amestrian imports, which means higher taxes, which will cripple economic growth. All because every household in Ishval insisted on washing their front steps every morning.

A knock on the door. Roy gasps audibly as the sound breaks through his half-conscious daze. Bolting upright, his head snaps to the left to see Riza already kicking her feet to the floor and adjusting her jacket. The clock above the door reads 2:21, which means they’ve been lying here for nearly an hour, even though it feels like he was barely out for more than thirty seconds.

Roy shakes his head until his ears pop and rubs at his eyes to ease the sting. He’s not even concerned that their caller will find their private meeting suspicious. They both look far too haggard to engage in anything that would violate fraternization protocol.

He walks to the door while Riza heads over to his desk, pretending to inspect some of the loose papers on the surface, as if they were just engaged in some serious discussion. Roy tries to unlock the door with as much discretion as he can coordinate, but trying to inject subtlety into his movements feels a bit like trying to remain quiet while sneaking home drunk.

He pulls open the heavy door, and is relieved when he takes in the identity of his visitor.

“Führer Eckert, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

The old man gives a polite chuckle. “You don’t get to call me that for another two months.”

Roy smiles and steps back to allow him entry. The man practically limps past him, clearly suffering from the aftermath of last night as well.

“Hm,” – his watery brown eyes dart between the two of them – “I see you two got just about as much sleep as I did.”

“No rest for the wicked,” Roy responds, internally debating how rude it would be to return to his spot on the couch.

“Indeed.”

Fortunately, Eckert resolves that dilemma for him. He makes a beeline for the couch that Roy was sprawled across not a minute ago. He sinks down onto the cushions and spreads his arms across the back. If he notices the warmth of the leather or the human-sized dent, he doesn’t say anything.

“Are things in Wolgemut’s office going well?” Roy asks, taking a seat across from him. He adamantly hopes that Eckert didn’t drop by for anything more than polite smalltalk.

“Not particularly productive,” he replies with a dismissive wave of his hand. “We all decided to call it a day, recuperate over the weekend and regroup on Monday.”

“In hindsight, we probably should have held the election on a Friday,” Roy says, wracking his brain for the original justification in scheduling it for a Thursday.

“Just draft up the bill and I’ll sign it,” Eckert laughs, clearly over the moon despite the heavy purple bags hanging beneath his wrinkled eyes.

“I just wanted to drop in and formally express my thanks. To the both of you. I think it’s fair to say that without your help, my campaign probably wouldn’t have made it this far.”

Roy opens his mouth but Eckert swiftly cuts him off.

“No, I’ll accept no courtesy protests. The two of you were my eyes and ears around this place. You helped steer my campaign at every turn, and at great personal risk to your own careers.”

Roy can’t in good faith argue that adulation. Despite his original resolution to take a backseat role in the election, he somehow became Eckert’s primary point of contact within the military, and naturally, Riza followed him along for the ride.

They collected reconnaissance from the secretary pool and print shop, the file clerks and wait staff, gathering intel on the senior staff’s campaign strategies: the disparaging claims they were going to launch against Eckert, the skeletons they planned on digging out of his closet.

Not only did they pass on everything they heard, but they helped formulate counter-arguments and relay information that discredited the brass’ claims. There was no paper trail since everything was communicated with Eckert’s network through word of mouth, typically in public venues disguised as secondhand gossip.

They exercised as much due diligence as they could, but it was still common knowledge among the upper ranks that they were the inside agents, which earned them their fair share of dirty looks to say the least.

“I’m sure that the two of you will be black sheep around here for a while,” Eckert continues, “so if you ever need an emergency exit, there will always be positions available for you among my staff.”

Roy always inferred as much, but hearing it aloud is a pleasant courtesy.

“Thank you, sir,” Riza says, finally stepping away from the desk. “That does provide some comfort.”

“Yes, thank you. For the moment, I think we’re both going to stick around for as long as we can, even just to see how bad things can get.”

Truth be told, he’s been weighing the pros and cons of transferring to the legislative branch for a long time. Resigning from the military seemed particularly appealing a year ago when he was in the midst of reassessing his orientation and coping with the thought of abandoning his dreams for the Führership. The idea of remaining closeted ad infinitum was depressing to say the least, but being an openly gay officer held little appeal as well.

There were many rough nights while Ed was in Risembool that he considered handing in his resignation and launching a campaign for parliament, but that idea quickly died on the vine when he analyzed it objectively.

In his current position, he exercised far more power than he would as a representative to a small portion of Central. There would also be the constant struggle of running for reelection, and if he lost his seat, he’d be forced to rebuild from the ground up. Even accepting a cabinet position would be a risky gamble, considering that the military candidates could always sweep the next election and toss him to the curb. Because despite the senior staff’s calamitous fear-mongering, the military won’t be marginalized to second-class status anytime soon.

The army was already experiencing a fairly sizable exodus. Many of the young and rising career professionals were resigning in protest over the military’s crusade to keep a firm grip on all facets of the government. They were currently hemorrhaging talent, as all those who were interested in enacting meaningful change were fleeing to parliament or the public sector.

He and Riza discussed doing the same, but they both felt a mutual obligation to stand their ground. If the military wanted them out, they could drag them out kicking and screaming.

Eckert laughs. “Your dedication is truly admirable. Now then” – with a grandfatherly groan he pushes himself to his feet – “both of you go home and get some rest. Führer’s orders.”

They salute in unison, ingrained muscle memory guiding their involuntary coordination. Eckert chuckles in response.

“Remember, around my office, a handshake will suffice.”

 

* * *

 

He notices something strange as he’s changing out of his uniform that evening:

Their bed has been pulled a couple centimeters away from the wall.

It’s barely noticeable, but with their bedroom being as sparse as it is, these small details tend to stick out beyond regular proportion.

“It’s just to keep the headboard from hitting the wall,” Ed explains over dinner. “The paint won’t chip and our neighbors don’t have to listen to us fuck. Win-win.”

Roy considers him skeptically, but decides to let the matter slide. If it’ll give Ed some peace of mind, he’s not going to protest something so harmless.

In hindsight, he probably shouldn’t have taken Ed’s dismissals at face value.

About a week later, he accidentally pulls open one of Ed’s drawers in their shared dresser, and is puzzled to find it empty. He checks his other drawers: all bare as well. The floorboards tilt beneath his feet and a rock drops in his stomach.

_He’s leaving me. Fuck, he’s leaving me._

He crouches to his knees to pull Ed’s suitcase out from under the bed. It feels light in his grasp, and when he pops the clasps he’s relieved to find it empty. That alleviates the worst of his fears, but it doesn’t resolve his confusion.

“I just thought it’d be a good idea to move my clothes over to the guest room,” Ed explains in the car after Roy summons the courage to ask. “Y’know, just in case the house gets raided,” he shrugs, his voice creeping just a bit too high.

Roy has to admit, that motive didn’t make it to his shortlist. He considers pointing out the seemingly obvious logic that if their house is being raided, then camouflaging their sleeping arrangement is probably the least of their concerns. The retort is on the tip of his tongue, but he leashes it back. There’s no point in stating something that Ed already knows.

Nothing could have prepared him for how quickly the situation would escalate.

After nightfall, the bedroom lights need to go off. Ed never offers any explanation as to why, but his trepidation is easy enough to pinpoint:

“Are you worried that people across the street can see our silhouettes through the curtains?”

Ed gnaws at his lower lip while staring up at the ceiling, giving a brief nod before turning to his side and burying his face against Roy’s shoulder.

A few days later, Roy replaces the thin, cotton curtains with thick, military-grade canvas. Ed thanks him, but with that hint of annoyance that he’s had a harder time masking lately. If the curtains give him any peace of mind, he doesn’t say so. The lights still have to go off after sunset.

Ed starts turning down Roy’s invitations to go out for lunch or drinks. Soon simple excursions like grocery shopping become too stressful. He even stops accepting rides to class in the morning, electing to walk over a mile in the cold instead.

“But it’s below freezing.”

“I have Briggs-certified automail. I think I’ll survive.”

After a week of walking, Ed comes home limping. Still, the physical pain is clearly more tolerable than the mental anguish of being seen in public alongside his partner.

More traces of him begin to disappear from their bedroom: hair ties on the dresser, gnarled pencils, the wrench and screwdriver he likes to keep in the bedside table. One morning, Roy returns from the shower to find Ed picking strands of long blond hair off the sheets. He gives Roy a look of detached acknowledgment, then returns to his task.

Roy is admittedly leagues out of his depth. He knows how to live with depression, but not alongside it. He tries to recall everything that Ed told him about his episode in Risembool. How he was plagued with overwhelming anxiety, crippling fatigue, insomnia, and a swath of other symptoms that all coalesced into a brief consideration of suicide. Roy listened, and empathized, and felt ethically obligated to advise seeking professional counseling, to which Ed gave a vague reply that he’d look into it; but of course he never did.

Maybe it was a mistake letting Ed off the hook from therapy as a kid. At the time, he didn’t even bother putting forth the suggestion. Ed was always so recklessly antagonistic, Roy figured that any attempt on his part to corral him under adult scrutiny would only drive Ed into a vindicated state of resistance.

But maybe he shouldn’t have surrendered without even putting up a fight. Maybe he should have enlisted Alphonse to steer his brother in that direction. After all, Alphonse exercised far more influence over Ed than he ever would.

There’s no point in dwelling on past imaginings though. In the present, Ed is rapidly regressing into a state of borderline dysfunctionality and Roy has no idea how to help him. He wonders if Ed is aware in the slightest just how much he’s hurting him. Not just through the callous and reactionary behaviors that manifest from his condition, but through his stubborn refusal to talk about it.

On good nights, Roy can draw Ed into a state of conversation that will grant him a brief reprieve from the mental prison he’s built for himself. After all, it’s difficult to lock yourself inside your own head when you need to absorb the words of another person and formulate responses. Yet anytime Roy tries to steer the conversation towards his emotional state, Ed will shut down, or change the topic to something trivial. Finally, after an evening of increasingly insistent appeals, Ed spits out a reply:

“My brain’s just doing some stupid shit, okay! There’s nothing to talk about because there’s nothing causing it! I can’t control it, I just have to wait it out. Okay?!”

The temperature continues dropping, and Ed keeps walking.

Roy supposes it’s easier for Ed to view his brain and his consciousness as two separate entities, even though it’s fundamentally impossible for them to be mutually exclusive. His consciousness is what contains his intellect, personality, and memories, while his brain is just a lump of cells dripping with excess hormones and uncooperative chemicals.

Roy supposes there are worse coping mechanisms. After all, it’s better that Ed is directing all of his frustration at his biology rather than allowing it to manifest as self-loathing and a sense of personal failing, like he did before. And he can understand Ed’s reluctance to address the underlying cause of his ailment. Digging up his personal trauma is probably the last thing he wants to do when he’s already stuck wading through hell.

Roy wants to respect his personal boundaries, but it's impossible to deny that Ed is actively making things worse for himself. Roy can understand his aversion to therapy, but it’s incredibly frustrating that he also refuses to learn basic anxiety management techniques.

When he tried to show Ed a few bare minimum breathing exercises, he seethed in frustration and pouted like a patronized child. Even going as far as to imply that Roy couldn’t really understand how bad things were in his head if he thought some contrived breathing and kindergarten brain games could turn things around.

Roy almost stormed out of the house that night. He might have if Ed hadn’t apologized immediately, realizing too late that he practically accused a torture survivor of being oblivious to real pain.

Still, it took a couple hours for Roy to bring himself down from that state of anger.

Because he understood suffering all too well. He was virtually agoraphobic his first year after returning from Ishval. He’s experienced firsthand the violent waves that stitch you to your bed and distort all perception of yourself and the world around you.

Sometimes he can see his own experiences mirrored in Ed: the uncontrollable crying spells, the anger that manifests out of nowhere, the way Ed’s facial features will sink as he loses himself in the labyrinth of his own thoughts.

On his absolute worst night, Roy watched him spend an hour trying to eat a single piece of toast. It was the only edible thing he could even stand to look at. First, he picked at it with his nails, then ripped it into minuscule segments, neatly lining them up like a child stalling at the dinner table. Finally, he started eating, crumb by crumb, unnecessarily chewing each tiny morsel to delay the act of swallowing.

They were both crying long before Ed finished.

Roy understands misery, and he understands anxiety. Every soldier has walked out onto a battlefield with the awareness that each step could be his last. He spent months trapped in a desert full of people who had nothing left to lose. In that particular plane of hell, your mind conditions itself to internalize fear and bottle it up for later. He remembers striding across the front lines in Ishval, completely oblivious to the notion of death; but later that same night he forced himself to vomit because he was overcome with some nonsensical fear that his rations had been poisoned.

The depths to which he sank after Ishval are beyond comprehension. Seriously, he can barely remember what he felt during his darkest days. Similar to how he can’t accurately assign words to the excruciating pain he suffered after cauterizing the wound in his abdomen, his mind has simply compressed the pain, dulling it down into something manageable that he can afford to carry.

But he vividly remembers that for years after the war ended, it was a struggle every night to leave his gun locked in the safe in his office.

In order to survive all of that, he had no choice but to exercise some measure of discipline over his thoughts. He learned how to snap himself out of flashbacks with the aid of olfactory cues. How to pull himself out of rumination by setting ten minute timers on his negative thoughts. How to keep a written record that helped him recognize the warning signs that he might be slipping into a depressive state.

However, in all fairness to Ed, he too felt initial resentment towards these strategies, and therapy in general. He viscerally hated the way that trauma counselors seemed to peddle self-forgiveness and compassion as pinnacle treatment goals, when he deserved neither. Not from others and certainly not from himself. Because regardless of his mental state, he had a debt to pay, and despite his best efforts, he’ll likely die buried in it. From that belief, he discovered that his most effective coping mechanism was work. Work that would give back to this country and the people he wronged.

Yet despite his intimate familiarity with trauma, he can honestly say that he’s never experienced what Ed is going through. It can hardly be called anxiety, but he’s terrified to call it mania. Sex quickly becomes impossible, and as of late even touch is unwelcome. Ed whispers that he’s afraid of carrying Roy’s scent on his body, or traces of his DNA. He’s scared that there are microphones in the walls and cameras in the street.

He insists, unprompted, that he’s not schizophrenic. That there are no voices in his head or hallucinations in the corner of his eye. He’s not suffering from delusions or losing his ability to distinguish fantasy from reality. Of course he doesn't _actually_ believe that the entire world is out to get them. It’s just hormones. It’s just chemicals. That’s what he tells himself, over and over again.

Ed takes up permanent residence in the guest room. Roy remains in their bed, smelling his pillow and crying into the fabric, overcome with a nauseating sense of loss even though Ed is just a few meters down the hall.

He remembers after returning from Ishval, he surrounded himself with tokens from his childhood: the books he read, the music he listened to, even the toys and stuffed animals that were packed away in his foster mother’s attic. He wanted nothing more than to erase everything that happened after he turned thirteen. To lose himself in memories of his youth, revert back to a state of existence when he had no worries and no regrets. To capture the essence of that perfect summer day when adulthood seemed so impossibly far away.

He recalls drinking until he was reduced to the cognitive reasoning of a toddler. Begging and bargaining in circles for a chance to go back and try again. To grow up into someone different. Someone better. The closest brush he ever had with suicide was when he realized that he would never experience the happiness he felt as a child ever again.

And he was right. He will never relive that perfect summer day. But with Ed, he got pretty damn close.

Just like he used to desire returning to childhood, now all he wants is to return to those heavenly months after Ed moved in with him. That gentle rush of mutually falling in love for the first time and basking in the conviction that Ed was the most beautiful, perfect creature in the world.

Their living arrangement wasn’t meant to be permanent. Roy simply offered to let him stay until he found his own apartment, and Ed spent weeks scouring the city, inspecting dingy basement apartments and out-of-code townhouses that the landlord somehow managed to divide up into four separate units. With no suitable options, Roy suggested that he postpone his search until May when all the students would be moving out.

May came and went, but Edward stayed.

All Roy can do now is cling to the knowledge that these episodes tend to run their course naturally. Maybe once Ed reaches a more stable frame of mind he’ll be more receptive to the idea of therapy. Right now, he’s clearly far too paranoid to divulge his feelings to anyone. Hopefully the stress of the election is what triggered it, and Ed’s brain will reorient itself just like it did in Risembool. Yet the fact that a pattern was emerging at all frustrated Ed to no end. He’d hoped that his last episode was an isolated incident, but a relapse within the same year practically verified that this was a chronic condition. Roy’s no doctor, but he can’t dispute that assessment.

Still, despite the brutal hardships of the past month, Ed manages to finish the semester with perfect grades. Although with grade inflation at the graduate level being what it is, Ed probably didn’t have to do much besides sleepwalk through class and breeze through his exams.

The evening after his last day of class, Roy returns home to find him curled up in the darkness of the guest room with his back to the door, buried beneath three blankets to ward off the chill that he can never shake off, no matter how much money Roy budgets into the heating bill.

He approaches the bed cautiously. Even after weeks of seeing Ed in this state, it’s still a struggle to accept that this is his baby. This is the same man who rubbed sweet liquor on his lips while reading him poorly translated Xerxian poetry as he fell asleep.

Gently, Roy lowers his body onto the narrow bed, keeping as much distance as he can between them. He’s not sure if he's ever experienced true touch-starvation until now. Touch was so integral to their relationship. Their mutual happiness was always so dependent on it. The fact that he can’t touch Ed without causing him pain is a poetically cruel fate.

Suddenly, Ed shifts, like he’s about to roll over, but then changes his mind.

“I’m going to spend winter break down in Rush Valley with Winry,” Ed mumbles, the exhaustion in his voice heart-rending. “She’s going to get me on some medication that’ll hopefully even things out.”

His pronouncement catches Roy off guard. He’s not exactly sure how to articulate the mixed feelings evoked by that decision. On the one hand, he’s glad that Ed is finally opening himself up to the idea of medication; but on the other hand, he must be aware that it’s dangerous to start medicating without an actual diagnosis. What’s more, it feels unfair to put that type of pressure on Miss Rockbell. He doesn’t even know what she’s legally allowed to prescribe apart from pain relievers.

“I’m glad you’re going to visit her, but with all due respect, she’s a mechanic, not a psychiatrist.”

“Automail engineers have been working as de facto therapists since forever. Especially out in Risembool where the closest shrink was a train ride away.”

Roy decides that there’s little point in arguing further. Ed has clearly made up his mind on this matter.

He hates to admit it, but there’s another very selfish reservation sitting at the forefront of his mind:

He can’t stand the thought of losing Ed for an entire month. This past month alone has tested all of his limits, and trudging through another with Ed’s complete absence might be the last straw. Especially since Ed’s smell has nearly faded from his pillow.

But he won’t burden Ed with that oppressive guilt.

“Okay,” he finally acquiesces, “but if things don’t work out, will you please see a specialist here?”

“But I can’t be honest with any of them,” Ed grates, his body tensing. “And before you say anything about doctor-patient confidentiality, you know damn well that a piece of paper doesn’t mean shit to my brain.”

Roy remains silent, attempting to telegraph his hurt without words.

“Sorry,” Ed apologizes with a hint of panic. “Didn’t mean to put words in your mouth.”

“It’s alright.” Roy wishes he could reach out to physically soothe him. He’s been struggling so much lately to convey the sincerity of his feelings without the aid of touch.

As much as he wants Ed to stay, he knows that it wouldn’t necessarily be in his best interest. Spending some time out of the city in the company of a friend will be good for him. Maybe while he’s in transit, Roy can give Winry a call to relay his side of the story, as he strongly suspects that Ed has been downplaying the severity of his condition.

“Fine,” Ed sighs, “if things don’t work out with Winry, then I’ll see someone here.”

That’s probably as much of a commitment as Roy’s going to get.

“Thank you. I love you so much,” he whispers as quietly as his breath will allow, barely more than a gust of air against the back of Ed’s neck.

Ed sniffs as a whine gets trapped in his throat. Has he been holding back tears this entire time?

“I love you too.”

For the first time in more than a week, Ed turns around and reaches for his hand. The warm touch of bare skin is almost nostalgic, and Roy finds himself spellbound by memories of those perfect summer days.

 

* * *

 

 

“I called him this morning just to check in, but I could barely drag a word out of him. I think he’s afraid the phones are being tapped. It sounded like he was trying his best to communicate that he was being held hostage.”

Roy rubs a thumb along the lip of his empty beer bottle. Riza hands him another as she returns to her spot on the couch between him and Black Hayate.

“You’d think he’d be well-adjusted to keeping secrets,” she says while popping off her own cap. “Considering that he committed an offense punishable by death and promptly decided to run into his executioner’s arms.”

"Wait, he did what?” Roy asks quizzically, feeling like he missed a very important segue.

“His human transmutation attempt,” Riza clarifies.

“Oh right, that thing. At least that’s more common knowledge than our relationship.”

Truth be told, the Elric Brothers’ human transmutation attempt was one of the military’s worst kept secrets. Even before several hundred soldiers watched Ed magically regain an arm, pull his brother’s body out of thin air, and draw a literal human transmutation circle in the middle of Central Command’s parade grounds. By now, the mythos surrounding their bodies was just part of the narrative, not inherently good or bad, just an element in a story.

“Is he actually scared of coming out? Or is it just the paranoia that’s weighing him down?” she asks.

“I honestly don’t know. I’ve tried talking to him about it, but I don’t think he really knows either.” He pauses to take a sip of his beer. “I think he’s frustrated with himself. Irrationality in other people drives him crazy. It must be hell trying to deal with it inside his own head.”

“Well, he’s a creature of logic. Even if his fears are over-exaggerated, that doesn’t mean they’re irrational.”

Roy takes a moment to consider that analysis. Truthfully, he himself has thought very little about the potential repercussions of public exposure, although he’s positive that Ed has done more than enough worrying for the both of them.

Even though he’s fairly certain that coming out won’t be the end all be all of the universe, it will incite a fundamental shift in their lives. Currently, Ed seems dead set on fostering a reasonably quiet existence free from public scrutiny; but unfortunately, he knows that his role as Roy’s partner will require sacrificing some degree of privacy whether he likes it or not.

“Have you two talked over any type of strategy?” Riza asks when he gives no reply.

“Damage control you mean?”

She shrugs. “One and the same.”

“In all honesty, no.” He almost laughs under his breath. “We started dating on the vague agreement that we’d tell people eventually, but here we are, almost a year later, still stuck at square one.”

“It’s not like you to ignore reality.”

“That’s because the reality is very cut and dry. If we come out, then I’ll never become Führer. That’s the logic, pure and simple. I’ve just gotten very good at ignoring it.”

Maybe his coping mechanisms really are just as bad as Ed’s. From the onset of their relationship, Roy has faithfully practiced the fine art of denial, and Ed has willingly played along. Sure, they tease and joke about what life will be like after Roy becomes Führer, but it’s all just a game. Both of them know it’s nothing more than a dream.

Sure, maybe several decades down the line the idea of electing a leader who sleeps with men won’t seem disqualifyingly offensive. Maybe if he found a companion his own age, someone harmless and unoffensive. A man with no baggage or controversy to his name.

Not Edward though. Never Edward.

“But if you’re seriously considering going public, it must mean that you want him more than you want the Führership. That’s got to count for something.”

Roy finally lets out a laugh. He presses the cold, half-empty bottle against his forehead. The sleek curve of the glass reminds him of the smooth metal plate that covers Ed’s kneecap.

“I don’t know if we’re going to be together for the rest of our lives,” he admits, finally divulging a fear that started fermenting long before Ed’s relapse. “Sometimes I forget how young he is. He’s changing so quickly. I have no idea who he’s going to be five years from now. But still, I’m terrified that he’s going to leave me. Nerve-deep terrified. It’s making me quite irrational.”

“If he leaves after you come out, then you’ll be left with nothing. Is that it?”

Roy can’t help but smile. Her unfaltering ability to read his mind will never fail to amaze him.

“Yeah, I think that sums it up nicely.”

Riza considers him silently for a moment before reaching down to scratch Black Hayate, who is resting his snout on her thigh. Her brow is creased in concentration, probably trying to formulate a solution to this preposterous knot in which he’s tangled himself.

“Might I offer a suggestion?” she asks. “Well, less of a suggestion. More of a proposition.” Her tone indicates that she plans to tell him whether he answers in the affirmative or not.

“I’m listening.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure why the end note that should be under the prologue keeps appearing under every chapter. Seems like a glitch. I can't find anyway to delete it.


	4. Twenty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am officially naming all of my chapter titles after a random-ass line of dialogue in said chapter. Enjoy some fluff!

“Okay, so get this. You know how Central Library bought that huge cache of Xerxian manuscripts back in 1862, and then inexplicably decided to lock up roughly five percent of the documents with only state alchemists getting privileged access? I think I may have figured out why.

“I’ve been translating some of the manuscripts I got you to copy for me and they’re almost all medical texts, and they talk about some pretty crazy shit. Like – my Xerxian isn’t perfect – but this one I’m working on now is all about blood transfusion. Obviously Xerxes didn’t have the know-how to distinguish between different blood types, but they understood that exchanging blood between incompatible people could lead to hemolysis. But get this: they literally figured out a way to transmute blood through alchemy.

“What they’d do is if someone needed a transfusion, they’d take a small sample of their blood, put it in a glass jar filled with water, sugar, and salt to form the base components of plasma, then they’d put the jar on this transmutation circle that replicated the red blood cells and platelets at a really rapid rate. Seriously, within a few minutes they’d have a jar full of fresh blood that would be perfectly compatible with the person who needed the transfusion. Sure, the blood lacked some of the more subtle proteins and what not that real blood has, but the body could replenish those components pretty quickly.

“But isn’t that amazing! We literally figured out how to transmute blood over five hundred years ago. This could save thousands of lives, but the government is so freaked out about human transmutation that they buried all of these Xerxian texts just because they deal with human bio-alchemy.”

 ...

“Well, at least I can trust that you’re feeling better. Considering that you’re ranting about government conspiracy theories over the phone.”

“Be more impressed with me.”

“I am unfathomably, exponentially impressed with you, and I think your theory is absolutely correct. And despite my enthusiastic desire to listen to all of your insights, I’m supposed to be at work in seven minutes.”

“Working for the same government that’s holding back the secret to eliminating virtually all blood-loss related deaths?”

“Yes, that one.”

“Okay, have fun. I guess I can’t complain since you’re the one footing eighty percent of our bills.”

“You already pay way more than you earn proportionally.”

“You don’t have to rub it in.”

“Sorry, Hawkeye’s honking for me. I’ll call you later tonight. Or if I don’t have time, I’ll see you at the train station tomorrow.”

“Okay, sounds good. Bye.”

“Bye.”

Ed hangs up the phone and turns back to his notes, which are scattered across Winry’s kitchen table. When he first arrived in Rush Valley a month ago, the entire tabletop was hidden beneath layers of schematics, stray tools, and wire clippings, all sitting atop a patchwork of burns and grease stains.

Throughout his tenure, he’s been steadily marking his territory, and now about half of the table is dedicated to his stacks of notes and dilapidated reference books. Needless to say, they’ve been eating all of their meals on the couch that’s been doubling as his bed.

He packed more than enough Xerxian reading material to keep himself occupied, even though he correctly predicted that he wouldn’t have the energy or focus to make much headway. Still, he couldn’t stomach the thought of leaving his father’s notes behind, unattended and out of sight. The mere idea made him anxious to the point of nausea.

This fear was like a thorn constantly jabbing into his brain with every beat of his heart. It started to ferment shortly after the election. It swarmed through his head like an angry wasp. Everyday, as soon as he shut the front door, he found himself counting the minutes until he could return home again.

His professors’ voices would grate and grind against his temples as his restless worries and twitching legs refused to stop screaming with panicked energy: “You need to go home right now. They could be there.”

He’s not exactly sure who “They” were. Whoever his hyper-fixation of the day decided they should be. “They” were always in his house. Crawling out of the walls and sneaking through the floorboards. He could see them, hear their shoes against the floor; the projections he conjured up were always more vivid and animate than the fog of reality in which he was trapped.

After class was over, he’d bolt home and frantically check all the locks on the doors and windows, even though this hardly alleviated his anxiety. If the government really was trying to infiltrate their house, they would make a conscious effort to leave no trace. This is why he could never wind himself down, no matter how many traps and tricks he used to verify that the house was exactly as he left it.

He tried to keep his neuroticism to himself, but sometimes it frustrated him to the point of anger that Roy could act so laissez-faire about their state of vulnerability. Roy knew that the military was actively searching for any excuse to oust him, and yet he still waltzed off to work every morning, uncaring that the military could destroy them by simply bypassing their deadbolt.

Even sleeping in separate beds and rearranging his possessions didn’t give him any peace of mind. After all, the military didn’t even need hard, incriminating evidence. All they needed was plausible suspicion. People would believe it, and there’d be no evidence to disprove it. They could destroy Roy’s life and reputation with nothing more than a rumor.

To make matters worse, the fact that Ed had sent Roy into the classified archives to copy out some of the poorly catalogued and untranslated Xerxian manuscripts also topped his list of nightmare-inducing worries. He didn’t think much of it when he asked Roy for the favor. He just thought they were what they appeared to be: poorly catalogued and untranslated. Libraries were full of things like that.

Once he discovered the theme of their content, he rapidly plummeted into a state of mania over his father’s notes. No one except for his close friends and family knew of their existence, but they certainly contained far more radical and undeniably dangerous information than a couple of ancient medical manuals. If They raided their home and discovered his father’s notes, They’d have no qualms about confiscating them and signing off on their incineration.

That’s why Ed brought all of the notes with him. He neatly stacked them in his suitcase like a puzzle, utilizing every inch of empty space. During the train ride, he clutched his luggage against his side, drinking cup after cup of cheap coffee to keep himself from nodding off. The caffeine kept him awake, but also stimulated his anxiety to dangerous heights. After arriving in Rush Valley, Winry found him sitting on the platform knee-deep in a panic attack, all because her arrival was delayed fifteen minutes by an appointment that dragged on longer than expected.

She bundled him in blankets and talked on and on so that he wouldn’t be forced to listen to his own thoughts. The next day, she offered to introduce him to a local psychiatrist: one who specialized in combat trauma. After all, Rush Valley was full of handicapped veterans.

He refused, and felt anger seer through his lungs at the thought that she lured him down here just to ambush him with the very scenario he left Central to avoid. He cried, which of course made her cry too. He hated making her feel guilty, but he had to make her understand.

He was terrified of everything and everyone. He was scared that Roy might be bringing home surveillance bugs in his boots. He was scared that their neighbors were planting cameras in the walls. He was scared that the entire train car was full of military operatives, all just bidding their time until he let his guard down.

If all of that could send him spiraling into hysteria, then there’s no way in hell he'd be able to divulge his feelings and swallow drugs prescribed by someone who hasn’t known him since birth. After some more tears on both their parts, she called up Pinako to get some input on what dose to start him on.

Three weeks passed before he started to notice any tangible improvements. Winry suggested that he keep a journal to track his symptoms and severity of his moods; and after a while, he started to notice a shift. His physical ailments began to subside: his headaches, shaking hands, chronic stomachache. His thoughts seemed to stop overlapping each other, individually screaming for attention. Finally, he could survive decent stretches of time without some debilitating bullshit punching him square in the face. The most significant milestone was when he managed to sleep through the night with all the lights off, without fear that someone might be hiding in the dark.

He knows that he’ll still have to find a doctor when he gets back to Central. As Winry explained multiple times, the effects of his dose will likely fluctuate within the next couple of months as his body acclimates, and he’ll need to get regular check ups to make sure his liver and kidneys are still fully functioning.

Sure, he now feels significantly less apprehensive about visiting a physician, or even an extremely well-vetted therapist, but he still loathes the idea of being dependent on drugs for the rest of his life.

Without mincing words, he hates it. He hated it as a kid, back when his functionality relied on prescription painkillers, which seemed to dictate his entire schedule: finding time to pick them up from the pharmacist, getting doctor’s notes so he could get them in bulk before traveling, making appointments to adjust his dose, swallowing down additional drugs to manage the side effects; it was frustrating just reflecting on all of that.

It’s been almost ten years since his automail surgery, and he's only recently recovered to the point where he can manage the pain through aspirin alone. But now, he’s right back where he started, and this time, he knows that the pain won’t heal with time alone.

He’s not ashamed about it. After all the multilayered minefields he’s trudged through, it’s honestly impressive that he lasted as long as he did without some form of chemical aid. But that doesn’t mean he can’t be bitter about it.

He’s twenty years old, and can’t imagine what it must feel like to be young. To have that sense of freedom and invincibility, to be oblivious to all of the terrible things that can and will happen to your body. It’s stupid, but tying himself down to a prescription feels like an admission that he’s lost his chance at feeling young forever.

He hears someone dawdling out on the landing. Probably Winry returning from her unscheduled, early morning appointment. She had to dart out the door at the crack of dawn after one of her patients woke up to find his entire arm immobile except for his pinky.

Ed supposes it’s a testament to the efficacy of his medication that the sound of her unlocking the door and twisting the knob doesn’t automatically send his heartbeat into involuntary acceleration.

Sure enough, Winry pushes through the door and drops her medical bag by the shoe rack.

“How’d it go?” Ed asks while she hangs up her coat on the back of the door.

“Good. It seems like he slept with his arm bent at a weird angle, which caused one of the main circuits to disconnect. It’s my fault. It was a shoddy soldering job. I didn’t charge him for it.”

“You never let me off the hook without paying,” Ed complains.

“That’s because you always had money to spare,” she says while striding over to the pot of coffee simmering on the stove.

“I don’t have much to spare now.”

“And when you inevitably bust up your leg again, I’ll be sure to give you a student discount.” She takes a seat across from him on the opposite side of the table; the side that’s covered with loose screws and scraps of steel.

“What’d Roy think about your discovery?” she asks, taking a sip of her coffee and grimacing at how black he brewed it, but swallowing it anyway.

“I don’t know,” he shrugs. “I probably should’ve waited until he actually had time to talk. But hey, I was reading through this other text last night.” He reaches for his notebook and flips to his translation before Winry has time to lecture him about consistent sleep schedules.

“Look at this.” He plops his notes in front of her, knowing damn well that it’s just as annoying as when she shoves blueprints in his face. “This text is actually a step-by-step guide for how to transmute artificial breastmilk.”

That certainly catches her attention, as her eyebrows rise a bit in interest.

“It’s basically a recipe for transmuting this kind of proto-formula for women who had problems with lactation. They would use alchemy to remove some of the heavy proteins and minerals found in goat’s milk that babies can’t process. Can you believe they were doing shit like this back when Amestrian medical theory revolved almost entirely around fancy herbs and astrology?"

“Ed, seriously, why don’t you just go into the medical field? You’re clearly passionate about it, and you hate what you’re doing in school right now. Besides, you’re always griping about how you want to save lives.”

Ed lowers his eyes to his notes: a disorganized cluster of interlinear glosses and marginal notations. Sure, he’s interested in the subject, but studying medicine through the barrier of translation and ancient history is one thing, actually immersing himself in the brutal reality of human suffering is another.

He toyed around with the idea of transferring to the medical track a while ago, but all it took to shut that idea down was a quick scan through the med school class listings: Clinical Surgery, Bacteria and Human Disease, Pathogenesis of Viruses, the list went on. He envisioned sitting in a dark lecture hall, numbly watching a slideshow of dissected cadavers, then returning home just to spend hours memorizing the symptoms for thousands of diseases that could potentially corrupt his body.

He saw flashes of blood on his gloves, imagined touching and probing bodies in search of abnormalities, and fuck, the thought of being obligated to tell someone that they were going to die, or even worse, feeling them die beneath his hands. The mere conjecture of it all was enough to derail his entire mood.

“I can’t,” he finally says. “Mentally, I just can’t. I can’t go into a profession that requires being around sick and injured people all day everyday. I can’t watch people die as part of my daily routine.”

Winry seems to chew over his words, like she’s genuinely surprised by that point of view. Actually, she might be, now that he thinks about it.

Even though her line of work requires daily exposure to excruciating amounts of pain, she herself has never experienced anything remotely comparable. Physically, she’s never suffered anything more painful than a toothache. She’s never been seriously ill, and her mental state – at least on the surface – seems as stable as they come. In many ways, he’s jealous of her. She’s the type of young person he wishes he could be.

“There are low-risk fields,” she replies. “I’ve never had anyone die on my watch.”

“No, but you probably will someday. I mean, it’s just unavoidable sometimes. And we need people like you who are strong and can deal with it, but I’m not one of those people.”

“You’re a lot stronger than you think you are.”

“Thanks, but I can barely handle the stress of just existing. I think I’d be pretty useless trying to take care of someone else’s life on top of my own.”

Winry turns her eyes down to the table as she rolls a stray screw back and forth beneath her finger.

“What about dermatology? That’s super low-risk.”

“Skin cancer.”

“Then just do cosmetic stuff. Acne and cysts and what not.”

“I feel like we’re getting away from the whole ‘saving lives’ objective.”

“Then how ‘bout–”

Her voice is cut off by the wail of a siren blaring from the neighboring rooftops: a long, monotonous whistle that drowns out all the other sounds rustling in the street below.

“Weird, that usually only goes off during flood warnings,” Winry remarks while standing up and walking over to the window that overlooks the street below.

“Maybe it’s a test,” Ed suggests, joining her by the window while internally reminding himself to stay calm.

“Maybe.”

Just then, the nearby speakers start broadcasting a message:

“Att….on, att….on, this…..emer…cy” – they simultaneously reach down to lift the window open – “announcement. There was a train derailment approximately one kilometer up the canyon. All medics and able-bodied individuals are encouraged to provide assistance.”

“That’s my cue,” Winry says, already heading towards the door as the message repeats.

“Do I count as able-bodied?” Ed asks while shutting the window and latching it shut.

“Put your coat on.”

 

* * *

 

Fortunately, as far as train derailments go, this one appears to be exceedingly minor. As they follow the swarm of other volunteers making their way up the canyon, they come up against a large crowd of passengers migrating towards town. Most of them are comfortably carrying their luggage and walking unassisted, with just a few leaning against others for support.

The story making the rounds is that there was a rockslide that left some hefty debris on the tracks. Thankfully, the conductor noticed the obstruction in time to pull the emergency brake. Upon impact, there was a significant lurch and the first two cars were dislodged from the rails; but most of the injuries were contained to bad falls and whiplash. There were no deaths so far, and hopefully it will stay that way.

“Hey, down here! We need some help!”

Ed catches sight of a middle-aged man with a scruffy beard waving an arm in the air. Winry is already dashing in his direction, her hefty medical bag bouncing against her back.

Ed takes in the scene as they draw closer. The man is standing next to a brunette woman with streaks of silver in her braid, who is bouncing a crying baby in her arms. They’re both standing over a younger woman who is sitting against the canyon wall with her foot propped up on a suitcase, her chestnut hair caked with blood.

“What happened here?” Winry asks, crouching down by the woman’s side. To Ed’s surprise, she’s not unconscious, and actually lifts her head in response.

“We were sitting across from her when the train pitched forward,” the man answers. “Her foot got caught on the seat, and she took a hard fall on her side. She was holding the baby against her chest, so she couldn’t reach out to brace herself.”

“Does that all sound right?” Winry asks the bloodied woman. She nods her head yes, but it seems doubtful that she actually remembers.

“She was unconscious just a few minutes ago,” the older woman interjects. “But she’s much more lucid now than when she first woke up.”

“Okay, that’s good. Can you tell me your name?” Winry chimes in her best bedside manner tone.

“Johanna Gheretzem,” she answers without hesitation.

“What’s the last thing you remember, Johanna?” she asks while opening her bag and pulling out some gauze.

“I was holding my daughter. She was crying. She was tired, but couldn’t fall asleep with all the train noise.”

While she’s talking, Winry inspects the wound beneath her hair, then starts wrapping the gauze around her crown.

Ed suddenly realizes that in generous terms, he’s being absolutely useless right now. Winry can clearly handle this on her own, and there are plenty of other passengers he could be helping, but something about the baby’s unceasing cry is rooting him to the ground.

“I’m assuming you have a headache, any other symptoms?” Winry asks. “Nausea, dizziness, ringing in your ears?”

“All of the above,” she responds, a small laugh breaking on the end of her breath.

“Well, you definitely have a concussion, but the cut on your head doesn’t look too bad, even if it’s bleeding a lot. What about your shoulder? Any severe pain there? Dislocation is common for side falls.”

“No, I’ve had a dislocated shoulder before. It doesn’t feel like that.”

Ed can clearly see her growing more lucid as the conversation progresses. She's now able to keep her eyes fixed on Winry’s, and her speech is plateauing on a consistent pitch.

“Okay, good. On a scale from one to ten, how bad is the pain overall?”

“Um, maybe a five.”

“She’s a new mother. This is nothing,” the older woman remarks, prompting a polite laugh from the rest of them.

“What about you folks? Any injuries?” Winry asks, turning her eyes to the couple.

“Just a sprained wrist I think,” the man answers, holding up his left hand, which does look swollen beneath his sleeve.

“Alright, keep your hand above your heart and follow everyone down the canyon to the hospital. They’ll splint that up for you. Here, I’ll check over the baby.”

She stretches her arms up in the direction of the little girl, who is no longer crying, but still letting out discontent whimpers.

“Thank you, miss,” the woman says as she passes the squirming bundle into Winry’s arms.

“It’s my pleasure.”

She turns her attention back to Johanna as the man and woman collect their bags and start to move along.

“I’m just going to check over her. What’s her name?”

“Gerta. I was holding her really tight when I fell. She might have some bruises,” she says apologetically, as if they would actually judge her for clutching her baby too tight.

“Well, let’s see.” Winry lays her on the ground and unwraps her swaddling blanket to reveal a grey onesie. The baby seems to revel in the freedom as she kicks and punches the air.

“Gerta, you tell me if anything hurts, okay?” Winry coos, but the baby takes no heed and continues fussing.

Winry gently grabs her tiny arms and stretches them above her head. She flexes her torso in protest, but doesn’t cry out. Next, Winry takes a hold of her flailing feet and raises them up, bending her knees forward and back.

Throughout the exam, the baby emits a few disgruntled keens and squeals, but seems to be exhausting herself with all the excitement. Just as her movements begin to die down into twitches, her body convulses with a sneeze that rocks her entire frame, followed by two more that sound like they might turn her inside out.

Admittedly, it’s pretty damn cute.

They all laugh as Winry reaches down to wipe the snot from her nose.

“Aw, I know all this sand is a bit irritating. But you look perfectly healthy. Your mommy did a real good job protecting you, didn’t she?”

Ed looks up to see the mom smile as Winry rubs a few circles around the baby’s belly.

“I’m going to find some people to bring a stretcher over to carry you down to the hospital, okay? Ed, you hold the baby.”

Before he can protest, Winry is raising her from the ground and dangling her in front of his face, leaving the dirt-coated blanket on the ground.

“Um, okay,” he stutters, realizing that those are the first words he’s said throughout this entire exchange.

He lifts her from Winry’s grasp and tilts her down into his arms, laying her head against the crook of his elbow and supporting her lower half with his other hand. Thankfully, she remains cooperative throughout the exchange, and once Winry seems satisfied that he’s not going to break her, she rises up and slings her bag over her shoulder. Before departing, she leans down to whisper in his ear:

“Keep her talking.”

For a few seconds of unequivocal stupidity, he thinks she’s talking about the baby.

After she takes her leave, Ed glances around and realizes that they're among the last people sitting near the train cars. There are still a few stragglers milling about, but it seems like most of the remaining volunteers are crowded around the front of the engine car trying to clear out the debris.

Ed turns to Johanna, who is staring down at her daughter intently, like she’s daring Ed to run off with her. Winry said to keep her talking, but what kind of icebreakers are you supposed to throw out in a situation like this?

“So, where are you headed?”

Winry didn’t say that his smalltalk had to be exceedingly original.

“Down to Dublith. Going to visit my parents. My husband and older daughter were supposed to come too, but she came down with something a few days ago, so he’s staying home with her. It’s funny, I was so nervous about leaving the two of them alone,” she lets out a clipped laugh.

Ed scrambles for a segue that will keep the conversation moving.

“How old is Gerta?”

“Um… four months.”

Ed has absolutely no frame of reference for what that means.

“Is she walking on her own yet? Applying for schools? Paying her taxes?”

He cringes as he hears himself repeat the default lines that adults always seem to throw out when they have nothing witty to say. Thankfully Johanna gives him a pity chuckle.

“The most she can handle right now is rolling over. But still, she figured that out a month before her sister. She’s got some good muscles.”

“Yeah, she seems pretty hardy.”

Ed glances down at the sleeping body resting against his chest. She’s been letting out little whines through the snot in her nose on each exhale. Her lips look unnaturally bowed and her cheeks are round like a chipmunk’s. He expected her to feel heavier, what with how bulky her body looks, but she doesn’t weigh any more than a couple of books.

Her doll-like hands are clutched over her torso, and her face is pressed up against his shirt. From this angle, he can see the delicate swirls of her ear. Just a shrunken version of an adult ear, the cartilage curling in on itself like a seashell.

Feeling her breathe against him, her chubby body swelling and deflating like a balloon, it reminds him of all the sentimental lessons about alchemy that his teacher drilled into his head. The same sentimental lessons that made him fall in love with alchemy, and not just the power it gave him. It’s mesmerizing to watch and hold a tiny person who is completely unaware of her mortality; her place in the lifecycle of the world.

He can feel her drool starting to seep through his shirt, but it doesn’t even bother him.

“Listen, I can take care of her while you get fixed up.”

Johanna gives him a skeptical look, which he hopes is just a reaction to the thought of being parted from her daughter in general, and not offense at the idea of him in particular watching over her.

“Don’t worry, I live with that blonde girl. I might not know a whole lot about babies, but she certainly does.”

That seems to put her at ease a bit, but she still looks apprehensive.

“Are you two married?”

“No, we’re cousins.”

The words slip out impulsively in his desire to cut off that potential line of questioning. Besides, it’s not a complete lie. He and Winry are third cousins once removed, but everyone from Risembool is related in some way or another.

“What’s your name?” she asks. It’s an innocuous enough question, but her tone makes it seem like she’s gathering evidence for a police report.

“Edward Elric.”

As expected, she gives him a look of confusion, then subtle recognition.

“Yes, that one,” he adds before she can ask.

“How old are you now?”

“Twenty.”

A smile breaks across her face. “I had my older daughter just two days after the coup in Central. I remember reading about you in the paper not long after giving birth.”

“Do you live in Central?”

“Yes.”

“What hospital were you in?”

“North Landing.”

He smiles in return.

“We were there at the same time. I think I was just a few floors up from Labor and Delivery.”

That certainly gives them enough fodder to carry on their conversation, up until two young men arrive carrying a canvas stretcher between the two of them.

Once they get her situated, the five of them begin making their way down the canyon. Ed tags along beside her with the baby in one hand and her suitcase in the other, which proves to be much more physically straining than he bargained for. After no more than half a kilometer, he finds himself daydreaming about his automail arm, which wouldn’t cramp and tremble from the pathetic struggle of carrying a four-month-old baby.

Johanna spends the duration of the hike giving him a crash course in every tidbit of childcare knowledge that her concussed brain can recall, which is an impressive amount considering.

When it comes time to part ways between Winry’s apartment and the hospital, he tries to reign in his nervous stutter as he assures her that he’ll take good care of the baby. The fact that she somehow managed to sleep through the entire walk definitely lends him an ounce of credibility.

Once they’ve said their goodbyes, Ed turns down the narrow alley and begins to climb the wooden steps leading up to Winry’s second-floor apartment.

Sure enough, as soon as he gets the two of them through the door, she wakes from her comatose nap and starts wailing with as much volume as her little lungs can expel. Ed nearly drops her from the shock and strain. His arm is so sore it feels like his muscles are going to give out at any second.

He moves to put her on the couch, but then remembers that if she’s capable of rolling over, then she’s capable of rolling off. So instead, he gets to his knees and lays her down on the wool rug.

She’s clearly upset by his abandonment, as she begins pounding her tiny fists against the carpet. Her features scrunch up and tears start streaming down her cheeks. Johanna said that she should be getting hungry around now. He hopes it’s that and nothing more.

“I’ll be right back, okay?”

Gerta responds with an impressive shriek.

While shaking out his arm, which is spasming with pins and needles, he flips open Johanna’s suitcase to retrieve one of the three bottles of breastmilk she packed in the upper compartment. It’s such a bizarre coincidence that he was reading about the mechanics of transmuting ancient baby formula just this morning. If he still had his alchemy, he could experiment with some of the cow milk Winry has in the fridge. Then again, maybe it’s a good thing he can’t act on that impulse. At least not when he has the perfect test subject at his disposal.

With the bottle in hand he starts to walk over, but then recalls that he’s supposed to heat it up. He thinks back, and realizes that Johanna didn’t specify how.

Again, if he still had his alchemy, he could just alter the atmospheric pressure. He used to do it all the time with his cold coffee. He winces as a particularly high-pitched cry splits his eardrums, and he glances back to make sure she’s still in one piece.

Without many options at hand, he grabs the saucepan that Winry used to make pasta last night and fills it up about halfway. Then he places it on the stove at high heat and puts the glass bottle inside; just like how his mom used to melt chocolate for baking.

Now he’s at an impasse. His instincts are telling him to tend to the crying infant, but he’s anxious about leaving the milk unattended, especially since he’s in such short supply. After some deliberation, he decides to wait by the stove. She probably won’t stop crying until she’s fed anyway, and his unfamiliar presence might only make things worse.

Suddenly, her cries begin to falter as she funnels all of her concentration into flexing her muscles and rolling onto her side. She flounders there for a moment before completing the roll onto her stomach, which Ed finds immensely impressive for some reason.

Once she’s satisfied with her new position, her cries continue. Ed watches, amazed that she's able to hold her head up so well. It’s hard to believe that her soft bones can support something so bulbous. She effortlessly swings her heavy head from side to side, up and down, making her disdain for her surroundings known. Her chubby hands are clutching at the fibers of the rug, grasping and releasing, sort of like a cat kneading a pillow.

Ed flicks off the stove even though the milk is definitely under-heated. He just has to hope that she’s too hungry to be picky. Besides, drinking cold milk won’t do her any harm. If she rejects it, he can just heat it up some more. But the pulsing in his skull really hopes that she’ll cut him some slack.

After drying off the bottle with a dishtowel, he walks over to sit next to her on the carpet. When he tries to lift her into his lap, she digs her fingers into the rug and tugs it up along with her.

“Wow, you’ve got some strong phalanges,” he remarks while trying to pry said extremities from the fibers. When she finally relinquishes her grasp, she simply channels her frustration into other parts of her body. She squirms and kicks, nearly landing a solid hit to his groin.

“Can’t you see I’m trying to do you a favor?” he grates as he attempts to corral her into a prone position so he can guide the nipple of the bottle into her toothless mouth. Finally, the first drops of milk touch her tongue, and almost immediately she goes slack in his arms. Her porcelain hands reach up to caress the glass of the bottle, occasionally brushing a fingertip over his own.

She molds her mouth around the nipple and closes her eyes, showing her contentment with little gasps and hums. It’s mesmerizing to think that this is probably her greatest joy in life. This is the only food she’s ever tasted, and she’s content to drink nothing but it. He’s almost jealous. He wishes he had memories of being this small. It must have been the happiest time of his life.

Before long the bottle is completely dry. Once he retracts it, her eyes drift open, only to glare at him with a look of neutral judgment; weighing him up, deciding whether or not he’s allowed to stay in her presence. He stares back into her curious eyes, like he’s playing mind games with an opponent before a fight.

Eventually, he has to surrender their staring contest so he can lift her upright against his chest. Johanna said that he should try to keep her vertical after a feeding since it’ll help with digestion, especially since bottle-feeding can result in swallowing a lot of air.

Damn, Johanna is lucky he has an incredible memory.

As he’s sitting on the floor with her, gently rubbing and patting her back, it occurs to him that he has no idea when Winry is going to be back. He expected her to be home by now, but maybe she’s helping out at the hospital. Or maybe she’s at an appointment with a regular client. Or down at the shop. After all, she has no good reason to come back. She has no idea that he's currently watching over a stranger’s baby.

Her absence wouldn’t have worried him so much if he wasn’t running low on breastmilk. Johanna said that she has to be fed every three to four hours, which means he’ll run out by early evening at the latest. When that happens, he’ll have to dash out to buy formula, but he doesn’t want to leave the apartment in case someone comes looking for them.

Gerta seems happily unaware of the stressful energy creeping through his body, as she seems content distracting herself with the playful properties of his hair. He can feel her tugging at his ponytail and digging her fingers through the messy strands. And even though he can’t see her, he can feel her stuffing clumps of hair into her mouth.

“Does it taste good? You’re probably entertained by anything, aren’t you? I’m jealous. When you get older, just keeping yourself from getting bored is exhausting.”

She lets out some muffled babbles in response and continues nesting herself like a little bird. To his surprise, he doesn’t really mind it, apart from the occasional yanks that stretch his scalp a bit too far. But if it keeps her occupied, it’s better than listening to her cry. Although, as he’s gotten older, his toleration on that front has improved as well.

Sure, as a teenager, he was as callous towards small children as the next asshole. But these days, he’d gladly listen to a crying baby over the pedantic, pretentious bullshit that spews from the mouths of his professors and classmates, who are perfectly capable of fact-checking their statements, but simply choose not to. He even prefers her crying to the awkward preachiness of public speakers, or the shrill sound of impatiently honking cars. Or the fake chime of radio advertisements, or the forced smalltalk of taxi drivers.

When babies cry, all they’re trying to communicate is that they need something. Even if that something is hilariously inconsequential; but Ed can relate to that.

There have been many occasions over the past couple of months where his rational reasoning skills felt equivalent to those of an infant. Back home, he would regularly work himself up into panic attacks simply because a pencil or a piece of paper seemed slightly askew from the position in which he left it.

On one bleak occasion, he actually used Roy’s emergency passcode to call him at work. The emergency in question? Some of his shirts were out of place and he was convinced that someone had riffled through his drawers. Poor Roy had to calmly tell him that he was the culprit, as he went through his drawers that morning looking for a shirt that he accidentally put in with his laundry.

So if babies want to cry because they pick up a weird smell or find themselves facing the wrong direction, then who is he to judge?

Just then, he feels Gerta’s body jolt as a hiccup flies past his ear. It may be the purest, clearest _hic-cup_ he’s ever heard. Then there’s another, and another, her whole frame jumping a bit with the force. He knows this probably means that she needs to be burped, but he has no idea how to go about it. There must be some special technique. Some secret maneuver that only parents know by instinct. He supposes it’s not the end of the world if he can't get her to burp. It’ll make her stomach upset, which means more crying, but she’ll live.

Fortunately, or unfortunately, really a bittersweet package, her hiccup is immediately followed by a loud, wet burp. Reflexively, he pulls her away as he feels undigested milk start to stream down his back. He dangles her over his lap as more spews out of her mouth and runs down her onesie.

“Are you done?” he asks in a deadpan tone, trying to ignore the gross, coagulated milk seeping through his shirt.

She gives a few weak coughs before her face scrunches up and she lets out a series of clipped cries.

“Alright, that’s it, you’re going in the bath.”

He pulls her back against his chest as he makes his way to Winry’s bathroom, which is so small and cramped that it probably violates every commonsense building code. There’s just enough space for him to kneel over the bathtub and plop Gerta inside. He fiddles a bit with the buttons on her onesie, trying to get her bulky, uncoordinated limbs to cooperate. It’s especially difficult since he has to dedicate one hand to supporting her back. This would be so much easier if her spine was strong enough to hold herself upright.

Finally, he manages to pry the garment off her body, but her diaper proves to be a bigger challenge. The safety pins keep slipping between his fingers, and once he gets them free, he’s greeted by an overpowering stench that may be responsible for her foul mood. 

He quickly turns on the faucet and Gerta recoils when some of the cold water touches her feet.

“Yeah, you’re like me in the morning.”

He sticks his hand beneath the running water, waiting for it to warm up. Then he remembers that her dirty diaper is still sitting in the tub, and he dashes to pull it out before the water can dilute it. Without hesitating, he tosses it in the small trashcan by the sink. He knows that it’s supposed to be washed and reused, but that is so far above his pay grade. For the moment, his only priority is making sure the hunk of sentient meat in his hands keeps breathing. Everything else is optional at best.

He inches her closer to the water, waiting to plug the drain until she’s cleaned up. He glances around for something to wipe her with, and grabs a washcloth sitting on the edge of the sink. It’s likely the same one that Winry uses to wash her face, but he can’t be bothered to care. It’s probably one of the only rags in her apartment that isn’t coated with grease. After wetting it and running it between her legs, he tosses it in the trash alongside the diaper.

Gerta seems to be enjoying herself for the most part. She looks entranced by the patterns in the running water; reaching out and attempting to clutch it between her fingers, giggling when some of it splashes in her face.

“Y’know what, you cheered up so quickly, I’m beginning to think you weren’t actually upset in the first place.”

She glances at him with a look of confusion, then promptly starts laughing and slapping the water rising around her legs. The strain in his arm is beginning to relax as the buoyancy of the water helps compensate her weight. He glances around for something that she can play with, and his eyes settle on a red stress ball sitting in a basket on the back of the toilet. Winry buys them in bulk and leaves them scattered all over the place.

He picks it up and drops it onto the surface of the water where it floats effortlessly. Gerta immediately reaches out for it, but it takes a few attempts before she can wrangle it between her hands. Once she successfully traps the ball, it goes straight to her mouth as she begins gnawing on the squishy foam.

“You are awfully cute. But you’re gonna have to get out soon. My arm’s getting tired.”

He lets her play for a few more minutes before deciding that it’s time to drain the water. He manages to dress her in a clean diaper and onesie, although he can’t be certain that he put either on correctly.

Once she’s safely situated on the rug, still happily mouthing at the stress ball, he glances up at the clock, and nearly has a stroke when he does the math and realizes that he’s been watching over her for only forty minutes.

How the hell do parents survive years of this? He hasn’t spent a single night with her, and already he’s exhausted. Even retrieving the ball when it slips out of her reach feels like a full-time task.

Then again, it dawns on him that throughout this entire ordeal, he hasn’t spared a single thought for himself. All of the toxic ideas that normally filter through his head, the self-loathing monologues and internal shouting matches, his general worries about the future, the state of his relationship, fear of the government, all of it feels so inconsequential in comparison to the immediate necessity of making sure the little human next to him keeps a hold on her beloved foam ball. She’s like a little pill, absorbing all of his attention and making it impossible to get trapped inside his own head.

She’s also distractingly warm. He didn’t expect her to be emitting this much heat. She’s like a little compact furnace. A personal space heater. All that energy circulating in one rapidly growing brain and body. He smiles down at her, and she smiles back, and at that moment, he hears Winry turning the key in the lock.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> btw I've just been randomly naming all of my OCs after 15th century European printers bc why not? None of my names have any meaning. Like literally none.


	5. Long Blonde Hair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! Updates will probably come every two weeks now that the semester has started. Unless of course I can stop writing these 7k chapters!

Roy always seems to forget that Central Station essentially functions as a giant wind tunnel. He curls in tight as a strong gust howls through the open enclave, leaving a trail of icy bites across his exposed face. Every thirty seconds or so his eyes will dart up to the large clock mounted on the far wall; its face, like his own, coated with a layer of ice.

Just as he considers retreating to the warmth of the main lobby, in the distance he catches sight of the black engine car of the train that should be carrying Ed. The rumble of its wheels grows louder as it approaches the station. Meanwhile the wind picks up to give the passengers a bitter welcome.

Roy stands on the edge of the platform amidst a crowd of other individuals waiting for their friends and loved ones. He hopes that when Ed disembarks, he’ll at the very least allow Roy to touch him through the barrier of their gloves and coats. Ed definitely sounded significantly better over the phone, but who knows if that sense of ease will persist once they’re back under the same roof.

Even before the train grinds to a halt, Roy can see Ed’s blonde head of hair dawdling on the gangway several cars down. He hops off before the conductor gives the all clear and immediately starts gazing in circles. Roy raises his hand above his head to catch his attention. Eventually, Ed rises to his tiptoes to search for his face in the crowd. Once they make eye contact, Ed smiles and starts speed walking in his direction, his ridiculously heavy suitcase offsetting his gait.

Roy strides forward to meet him, and to his surprise and utmost joy, Ed doesn’t hesitate to lean forward and wrap his free arm around his back in a firm hug. Roy returns the gesture, giving Ed’s body the appropriate squeeze and release of a friendly greeting. Ed starts to pull away, but his hand lingers on Roy’s shoulder for maybe a bit longer than platonic company would deem appropriate.

Roy can feel the icy wind stinging the moisture in his eyes.

“Did you have a good trip?” he asks, reaching forward to take Ed’s suitcase. To his surprise, Ed surrenders it without protest, but laughs when Roy’s arm comically lurches to the ground from the weight.

“Yeah, it was fine,” he says as Roy adjusts his grip. “Let’s go, I’m freezing.”

Roy nods and the two of them begin to maneuver their way through the crowd in the direction of the main entrance.

“Sorry I didn’t have a chance to call you last night,” Roy apologizes after they finally make it to the stone steps leading down to the street below.

“It’s cool. I kind of had my hands full anyway.”

“Oh yeah, what were you up to?”

“Babysitting.”

Before Roy can ask any questions, Ed launches into a narrative about the previous day’s events. A train derailment, a young mother, and a baby who developed a keen interest in Ed’s hair. The story is certainly adorable, but it’s not the reason why Roy can’t stop smiling.

When Ed initially left for Rush Valley, he wouldn’t even allow Roy to drive him to the station. They had to say their goodbyes in the living room. Ed was sitting on the couch with his suitcase at his feet, shaking with poorly masked fear. He barely slept the night before, and was terrified that he might fall asleep on the thirteen hour journey in front of him, leaving his father’s notes vulnerable to theft. In comparison to the state in which he left, Ed is practically floating down the sidewalk.

“So is the mom okay?” Roy asks as they both climb into the car, which he had to park several blocks from the station.

“Yeah, she’s fine. Just a concussion and a twisted ankle. Some volunteers were going to drive her down to Dublith this afternoon to her parents’ place.”

“With or without the baby?” Roy jokes as he switches on the heat.

“Don’t know. Winry got pretty attached to her. She might’ve run off with her after I left.”

“It seems like you got pretty attached too,” Roy teases as he glances over his shoulder to make sure there’s no oncoming traffic.

“I can’t tell if I actually found her entertaining, or just distracting.”

“Either way, if you like babysitting, I know someone who might be in need of your services.”

“I’m not a nanny.”

“Good, because you probably wouldn’t get paid for what I have in mind. I can’t remember, did I tell you that the pregnant girl who was working for my foster mother had her baby about three weeks ago?”

Ed nods. “Yeah, you mentioned it over the phone.”

“Well, she ran out last Tuesday and left the baby behind.”

“Really? Why?”

“I don’t really know the details. She didn’t leave a note or anything. Maybe it was stress, fear, regret, who knows? But whatever the reason, my foster mother is looking after her baby for the time being. If you’re feeling charitable, I’m sure she’d appreciate any extra help.”

Ed stares out the windshield, apparently thinking the matter over. Despite being a spur of the moment idea, Roy hopes that he’ll consider it.

Even before his relapse, Ed never voluntarily socialized with new people. As far as Roy knows, he hasn’t made a single friend at school, not even among his teachers. He’ll tag along sometimes if Roy wants to go out, but apart from his brother and Winry, Ed doesn’t seem to have any real friends. Maybe a baby would be a poor substitute on that front, but it’s a stepping stone. It’ll certainly be a net positive if it keeps him distracted.

“Yeah, that might be fun,” Ed replies while reaching forward to crank up the heat. “By the way, why do you always refer to her as your foster mother? You can just call her mom you know.”

Roy nearly speeds through a red light, managing to skid on the brake just in time. Questions and statements in that vein always make him uncomfortably aware of how far from ordinary his upbringing must seem from an outside perspective. Maybe about ninety percent of his childhood falls within the realm of normal; but the remaining ten percent never leaves him short on stories.

“I haven’t called her mom once in my entire life.”

Ed glares at him in confusion.

“Then what’d you call her as a kid?”

“Madam.”

He pushes the gas pedal as the light turns green. Ed continues staring at him, the expression on his face worthy to hang in a museum.

“That’s fucking weird,” he finally says.

“You call your father by his last name,” Roy retorts.

“So do you.”

“Touché.” He truly has no adequate comeback to that.

“How ‘bout this: for the sake of tradition, if we ever have kids, they’re only allowed to address us as Mustang and Elric.”

 

* * *

 

 

Not a second after Roy latches the front door, Ed reaches for his face and pulls him in for a kiss that instantaneously rouses all the dormant urges in his body. He nearly chokes from the foreign presence of Ed’s tongue, as he tries to recall the basic skills he thought would be second nature by now.

Ed tosses his coat to the floor and starts eagerly digging into the buttons down the front of Roy’s uniform. He manages to herd Ed upstairs before they can completely divest each other. In the bathroom he pulls them both into the shower where they stroke and suck each other dry until their lungs are full of steam and they melt onto the floor of the tub, lying entwined beneath the falling water until it starts to grow cold.

Daylight is starting to wane by the time they make it to the bedroom. All that remains is a thin streak of dim, grey light peaking through the industrial curtains. Roy is sitting upright against the headboard, clutching at Ed’s thighs as he rides him slow. His skin is glowing with a thin sheen of sweat; eyes hooded, pursing his lips as he strokes his own cock.

They haven’t fucked like this in a long time. Not since early autumn as far as his memory serves. Of course they’ve had sex since then, but in the weeks leading up to the election, sex steadily began to lose its appeal. It felt like a short-term distraction. A way to keep themselves sane amidst the mounting stress and uncertainty. It’s been ages since they’ve been able to capture something this pure. The simple relief of emerging from dark times. There’s warmth circulating through their skin. The overwhelming joy of finally touching each other again. Roy wonders how on earth he survived without it for this long. Fuck, he missed it so much.

“You’re doing so good,” he praises Ed while tucking a stray strand of hair behind his ear.

Ed smiles; that playful, confident smile where he allows himself to show teeth. He bears down hard, resting deep on his cock and refusing to move, teasing them both.

“Fuck, Ed,” he gasps when he can’t stand it anymore. He digs his fingers into his hips, twitching and wriggling until Ed shows mercy and begins moving again, faster than before, letting out a keening grunt on each thrust as he impales himself to the hilt.

“Tell me you like it,” Ed rasps, reaching a hand behind Roy’s head to tug at the roots of his hair.

Roy can only stare at him, completely lost for words.

“Ed…” he begs, searching for something to say that will do this justice; but there’s nothing.

“Come in me. It’s okay.”

Roy lets out an indignant moan as Ed tenses around his cock. His movements are slower now, methodical, with greater intent. Fuck, he’s beautiful. His haggard breaths and half-choked gasps vibrating on his tongue as he rotates his hips and digs for whatever he needs.

Roy runs his hands up the tight muscles in Ed’s back. He pulls him closer and vaults his hips up hard. Ed clings to him as he rocks into his heat, clenching his eyes as the world goes white. Ed follows him shortly thereafter; rubbing himself between their bodies until Roy feels cum splash against his sternum.

Once he’s passed the apex, he grasps Ed’s cheeks between his palms and kisses him long and deep; swallowing and absorbing the remnant aftershocks of his climax. With delirious intent he begins kissing the rest of his face: brow, eyelids, jaw; smelling and licking up the traces of his sweat.

“You’re gross,” Ed says with a smile while still leaning into his lips like a cat being pet. Then he rises from his dick and happily collapses to the side. A photograph of Ed in this state could easily sell for a million cenz.

“Fuck, I missed you.” Roy leans down to run his nose and lips along the canvas of his skin.

After briefly showering again, Roy rummages through the kitchen for a makeshift meal. He brings up a plate full of bread smothered with butter and jam, which they devour in bed without caring about the crumbs. They’ll have to wash the sheets anyway.

Ed looks so happy it’s painful to know that time is still moving. The sun has set and the clock on the nightstand seems to be ticking inordinately fast. It’s unfortunate. Now that Roy knows that these states of decadence are inherently ephemeral, it’s harder to lose himself in the illusion that this happiness will last forever.

“Riza made an interesting suggestion while you were away,” Roy says hesitantly, slightly nervous about broaching the nature of her offer when Ed seems so sanguine.

“Oh yeah?” Ed remarks, licking a bit of jam off his thumb.

“Yeah, she suggested that… maybe she and I could pretend to be in a relationship.” He tries to keep his tone light, but now he realizes that it may have come off sounding like a joke.

Ed looks at him quizzically, probably trying to assess the seriousness of his statement. In all honesty, Roy is internally doing the same.

“You mean as like a smokescreen for ours?” he asks.

“Essentially.”

“Wouldn’t that violate all sorts of red tape?”

“At the moment, yes, but she’s getting a promotion to the Artillery Branch next month, so we technically won’t be working in the same department anymore. We’d have to sign some papers, but for all intents and purposes, we could make it official.”

He tries to maintain an air of neutrality that doesn’t betray his own opinion on the matter. He doesn’t want it to come across as though he’s delivering a sales pitch, or an ultimatum, just a casual suggestion, one possible option out of many. But if Ed asks, he’ll tell him the truth:

He wants this. He had no idea how badly he would want it.

It would be a convincing partnership beyond all reckoning. It would provide cover for their living arrangement indefinitely. Ed wouldn’t have to stress himself out over Roy’s absence from the dating scene, which no one currently cares about, but they probably will once Roy starts pursuing larger political ambitions. He’s thought about Riza’s offer extensively in Ed’s absence, and one of the only downsides would be the smug looks and snide comments they’d undoubtedly receive from their friends and coworkers.

Ed chews his bread thoughtfully, and Roy smiles when he notices a clump of jam sticking to his hair unnoticed.

“I get that literally everyone in the military already thinks you guys are fucking, but it seems unfair to drag her into this. But for the sake of curiosity, how would you go about faking it?”

“By acting exactly the same as we always have, and maybe she would stay over once or twice a week. It wouldn’t be permanent of course, but it’d probably buy us a few years.” _Or longer,_ Roy almost says.

Ed considers him skeptically. Based on his tone and body language, Roy has to concede that bringing him on board might be a lost cause. To his surprise, the disappointment is sharper than he anticipated.

“But then when you guys did eventually “break up,” you’d never be allowed to work together again.”

Roy’s surprised that Ed is familiar enough with the fraternization code to know that fact. Although he supposes it is fairly intuitive.

He and Riza did consider that unfortunate drawback, but they seemed to be in agreement that at least one of them will leave the military sometime in the near future, whether voluntarily or through coercion. Roy doesn’t want to broach that prediction though. Because the potential timeline he's envisioning certainly extends a bit longer than “a few years.”

“Yes, that’s true,” he simply replies.

Ed lets out a deep sigh. “Tell her thanks, but I think this is our mess to deal with.”

Roy tries to swallow his disappointment.

“I’m sure she won’t be too torn up about it.”

“I’ll write her an apology card if I have to,” Ed laughs before taking another bite. Roy stares down at his own half-eaten slice of bread. Now that the proposal is off the table – at least for the time being – he tries to recall why he was so invested in the idea in the first place. In his head, he framed it as a remedy for Ed’s fear of discovery, but in hindsight, maybe he wanted it more for his own interests.

“But to be honest…” Ed starts before trailing off, staring in the direction of the curtained window. “Look, I know the original plan was to keep it undercover for as long as we could get away with it, but…” he sighs, “I don’t know.”

“Do you want to start telling people?”

Roy waits on edge for his response, internally pleading that he’ll say no.

“I think I do. But in the same way that I’d rather throw up than feel nauseous all day. Like, it’s gonna happen eventually. I know you’re busy playing six-dimensional chess and what not, but if you can find a good time, I think I’d like to just get it over with.”

Roy wonders if he can get a prescription for whatever miracle drug Winry managed to hook him up with. “Just get it over with.” Like paying your newspaper subscription fee upfront for the whole year rather than sending in a payment every month.

Ed casually suggesting that they come out is simply unprecedented. Even before his episode, he never gave any indication that he was ready to go public anytime in the near future. Although, fear of falling into another relapse may be his primary source of motivation.

Maybe it would be best to cut this conversation short and revisit it later when Ed isn’t enjoying his post-coital afterglow. After all, Roy does have a say in the matter. It’s his career and reputation that are on the line. He’s the one who’s going to take the brunt of the damage. Statistically, his feelings should deserve greater weight in the matter.

Even from a practical standpoint, waiting at least a few more years would dampen the controversy surrounding Ed’s age. Granted, their relationship will never be immune to judgment, but if they tell people that they started dating when Ed was twenty-four rather than nineteen, it would make a world of difference.

But then he remembers the first time he reached for Ed’s hand only to have him pull away. He remembers the raw fear in Ed’s eyes, his look of misery and defeat as he cyclically drowned himself in malignant hypotheticals over every word and gesture.

Roy never wants him to relive that torment. If he drags this out too long, Ed may simply decide to leave of his own volition and seek out someone safer, simpler; someone who can give him everything while losing hardly anything. Knowing Ed, he’d probably convince himself that leaving would be in Roy’s best interest.

“Any ideas about how you would like to go about it?” Roy asks, trying not to betray his inner distress.

Ed shrugs. “I was thinking we could just… start telling people close to us and let the rumor mill do its work.”

Roy supposes that would be the most straightforward method. Although, gossip in the adult world generally doesn’t circulate as quickly as it does in school.

“We could take out an ad in the paper,” he suggests jokingly.

“Fuck, no. My height and jawline have given me newfound anonymity, and I’d like to preserve it for as long as possible,” he says right before he finishes his last bite of toast.

“That’s actually something else I wanted to talk to you about.”

“My height? By which you mean I’m half a centimeter taller than you?”

“Anonymity. If you stay with me, you’re going to lose it one way or another.I know you’re tired of being a celebrity, but that’s somewhat of a mandatory requirement if you want to stay with me.”

It feels condescending to voice something that Ed must implicitly know, but Roy suspects that he’s been lingering in denial over the matter; just as Roy spent an entire year refusing to consider the consequences of coming out, thinking about the stress of public ubiquity might be too much for Ed to handle.

“What’s all this ‘if’ talk? I know what I signed up for, and you know damn well I hate making things easy for myself.”

Apparently they’re both guilty of that flaw.

“I just want you to be happy.”

Ed smiles. “I don’t need much to be happy.”

With that, he presses a hand forward to cup Roy’s crotch. Roy twitches in his grasp as Ed uses his other hand to pull the strings of his sweatpants loose and reach inside.

 

* * *

  

He’s not ready. Not remotely ready.

He didn’t think it was going to happen this quickly, if at all. He thought they’d have at least another election cycle. Maybe a decade. Riza’s offer could have bought them enough time to make it through his term as Führer.

During Ed’s absence, he constructed an elaborate fantasy in his head. A sham courtship. A sham marriage. No children, but that was hardly anyone’s business. Amestris isn’t a monarchy. It’s not like succession matters.

After his tenure as Führer, they could separate through an amicable divorce. Sure, it would supply the country with ample gossip, but it would be lifelong entertainment baffling the public with their ability to remain close friends.

But even in his imagination, he knew that scenario would be immensely unfair to both Ed and Riza. It would mean condemning Ed to a life as his guilty secret, forcing him to sacrifice his own ambitions, practically confirming that Ed would always come second to Roy’s political games. It would also be cruel to force Riza into a role as his artificial wife. She wouldn’t even get the consolation prize of a secret lover. She’d be trapped in his orbit, forced to watch him and Ed find happiness in the shadows while she was left with no one.

No, Ed was right. This is their mess. They’ve made their bed. Sooner or later, it was always going to come down to this. If he doesn’t accept coming out soon, then Ed will most likely leave him. He may not want to, but eventually the stress, paranoia, and resentment will outweigh the pleasure of Roy’s company. Parting ways would be excruciatingly painful, but he would survive it. Maybe not intact, but he’s survived far worse.

But losing Ed wouldn't mitigate the reality that this fate is inevitable for him. He can never go back to the way things were before. Now that he’s felt, tasted, and loved another man. He can never go back to all those nights he spent in the beds and bodies of women, lost and haunted by a sense that something wasn’t right. Not necessarily _wrong._ Just not _right._

_Why can’t I enjoy her scent? Or the taste of her cum? Why is it taking me so long to finish?_

His optimistic side – the side that still cautiously believed in all the saccharine love stories he heard as a kid – tried to convince him that he simply hadn’t found the right person yet. That sex without love is always bound to cap out at a certain point. That one day he’ll find someone who will enlighten him to the reason why men discreetly snuck into his childhood home every night to spend a paycheck for the privilege of an hour or two with a stranger’s body.

However, his pessimistic side typically carried greater influence, and it told him that his body simply wasn’t capable of feeling things with that level of intensity. After all, humans are born with such unique variation. Surely some people have more sensitive nerve endings, higher hormone outputs, more acute senses. Maybe his experiences were as good as his body could deliver, and he was setting himself up for failure if he kept waiting for sex to magically become earth-shattering.

And then it did. And it broke him. And now he can never go back.

“Start telling people close to us.” That’s what Ed suggested; but he can’t think of a single person worth telling. Riza and his foster mother are really the only people who are privy to serious information regarding his personal life, and they both already know.

Havoc and Fuery are his closest friends still stationed at Central Command, but over the course of several cafeteria conversations, the words never seem to ferment. Because there are no casual segues. No conversation beats in which it can seamlessly fit. Because it’s not casual. It can never be relegated to a simple throwaway line that will easily blend in with the vernacular, the way he might mention moving in with a girlfriend.

It’s earthshaking. It’s cataclysmic. Especially for the people who know him best; who know Ed best. Even now, virtually all of Ed’s former coworkers and allies still view him as a kid. A half-formed human still growing into his own skin. When they learn the truth, they won’t feel any joy on their behalf. There will be no congratulations, or words of encouragement. The most he can plausibly hope for is tacit acceptance, and even that may be too much to ask.

One way or another, this will destroy him. He’s not sure how he ever managed to convince himself otherwise.

“Sir.” He raises his head to see his secretary standing in the doorway. “Colonel Plannck in Investigations would like to see you in his office this afternoon if you’re available.”

He scours his memory. Colonel Plannck, Deputy Commander in the Investigations Department. They’ve only shared a few passing remarks at various meetings, and some friendly greetings in the hall. His mind bristles with curiosity, and trepidation.

“Did he say what for?”

“No, sir. His assistant just left a message.”

That’s strangely ominous. Requesting a meeting without an agenda is rude at best, and actively malicious at worst.

“Very well. Tell him I’ll be available in about an hour.”

“Yes, sir.”

She steps out and shuts the door behind her.

He presses the nib of his pen back onto the sheet of paper in front of him, only to find that the ink has pooled at the tip, leaving a large black blotch at the beginning of his signature.

 

* * *

 

 

“Brigadier General, thank you so much for stopping by on such short notice.”

Plannck rises from his chair as Roy enters. To his right, there stands a young man with bright red hair, silent with his arms firmly barred at his side.

“No trouble at all,” Roy replies, walking towards the desk and extending his hand, which Plannck takes without hesitation.

“Please, sit down,” he says while sinking back into his own chair. “This is my assistant, Warrant Officer Breisgau,” he says, gesturing to the young man at his side, who gives Roy a firm salute. Roy gives a quick nod in return as he reclines into the wide chair facing the desk.

“So, how can I be of service today?” he asks, crossing his legs, trying to broadcast a sense of casual ease.

“I’ll be forthright with you,” the old man says, clasping his hands on top of a stack of papers. “I was hoping that I could ask you a few questions about the nature of your relationship with Captain Hawkeye.”

Roy has to restrain the impulsive laugh that almost makes it past his lips. So that’s what this is: a fraternization inquiry. When he received the summons, his nerves started to run away with his imagination. But if his enemies have resorted to targeting him on this front, then they must truly be scrapping the bottom of the barrel. To hurl an accusation of this nature they must genuinely believe that he and Riza are having an affair. He almost smiles thinking about how thoroughly disappointed they’re going to be.

In hindsight, it’s probably a good thing that Ed rejected Riza’s offer.

“By all means. I’m honestly surprised that it’s taken this long.”

“So the two of you were prepared for this scenario?”

Roy deliberately pulls his polite smile back into a look of consternation. If Plannck has truly cast himself as a pawn in this political pageantry, then he’ll play his game.

“I understand that this is an informal inquiry, but if you don’t mind, I would prefer it if we recorded this conversation.”

To his surprise, Plannck doesn’t recoil at his request.

“Yes, of course, no trouble at all. Officer, will you fetch us a fresh roll of tape?”

“Right away, sir.” The young man nods his head and walks towards a closet against the back wall, his gait stiff beyond regular etiquette. He and Plannck are left to perhaps a minute of tense silence, both calculating their next move.

Most fraternization cases are resolved quickly and without spectacle. The couple in question is usually caught _in_ _flagrante delicto,_ giving them no choice but to come clean. If the case is based purely on speculation, the investigators will typically ambush both parties separately and bring them in for simultaneous questioning. Usually at least one of them will confess to avoid perjury, and if they don’t, then the inquisitors will trap them by drawing inconsistencies between their stories.

However, that strategy only works if the couple in question is, in fact, a couple.

It’s true that he and Riza have a much greater secret to protect: that of their familial relationship. But it would be virtually impossible for the military to catch wind of that information. Grumman was nothing if not thorough in covering his tracks. Roy and Riza inventoried all of Grumman’s possessions after his death, and couldn’t find a single scrap of paper bearing any evidence that Roy was his biological son.

Although in hindsight, accusations of nepotism would undoubtedly pose less of a liability to his career than openly sleeping with a man fourteen years his junior.

But this isn’t about either of those things. This is about the brass looking for a convenient excuse to bludgeon him and Riza with one stone. It’s a gamble that will backfire spectacularly.

“I don’t quite understand how this contraption works to be honest,” Plannck remarks as his assistant begins wheeling over a large block of recording equipment. “It’s supposed to save us money, but with the price of tape being what it is, I fail to see how it’s more economical than a stenographer.”

“It’s certainly more reliable,” Roy says.

“When it works, that is.”

Roy weighs that reply carefully, trying to determine whether it was intended as an offhand remark or a veiled threat.

“Thank you, Officer. If you don’t mind.”

The young man nods as he pushes the red recording button, which sets the tape in motion.

“Now then, Brigadier General Roy Mustang, this is an informal inquiry into the nature of your relationship with Captain Riza Hawkeye. We’re here to assess whether or not the two of you have violated fraternization protocol, and if so, to what extent. Do you swear to keep all of your statements honest and forthright?”

“Yes. Please continue.”

Plannck extracts some papers from the manila folder laid out in front of him.

“First thing’s first, have you ever had undisclosed romantic and-or sexual relations with Captain Hawkeye while you were both members of the armed forces?”

“No, sir. Not in the past, present, or future.”

Again, to his surprise, Plannck doesn’t seem shaken by his response.

“Very good, that should make things easy. Now then, about a month ago the Investigations Department received a complaint from a high-ranking official regarding your relationship. We thoroughly vetted this individual’s accusation and dispatched a member of our staff to investigate the matter.”

Roy’s blood runs cold. Assigning an investigator is virtually unprecedented in fraternization cases, especially for such an extensive period of time. Because when push comes to shove, the military hardly cares about romantic socializing. The army is full of quiet couples and circumstantial affairs. Only the ones who cause trouble are explicitly targeted, and generally the only consequences they face are demerit, reassignment, and humiliation.

Whoever lodged this complaint must wield a great degree of influence; someone desperate to see the two of them ousted and shamed.

“According to their report,” Plannck continues, “you and Captain Hawkeye regularly socialize at work and in public venues. You often take your lunch breaks together, both in the cafeteria and your private office. You carpool together nearly every day, and about once per week, you drive her home to her apartment at 605 Klummer St., where you typically remain for several hours before driving home, but you have never spent the night. Does all of this sound accurate?”

Roy is immensely thankful that this investigation likely started after Ed already left Central. It’s probably in his best interest if he never learns about any of this. If Ed knew that the military was actively watching and following them, it would destroy his peace of mind beyond recovery.

“Yes, sir. That information is correct.”

“And do you maintain that none of your interactions have violated fraternization policy?”

“No, sir, they have not. Our friendship extends nearly two decades and has never been anything but platonic.”

Plannck nods his head and skims back through his notes. He may have no dog in this fight, but whatever superior looming down his neck certainly does.

“So what do you discuss during your evening chats?”

Roy recognizes the question for what it is. This is the point in the interrogation where they’ll try to suss out inconsistencies between their stories.

“Whatever one talks about with a friend. Problems at work, reminiscing about the past, good books we’ve read. Actually, that last one is a lie. Neither of us have had time to read a book in a very long while.”

Plannck gives a small laugh. “I can empathize. Based on your record, you have on multiple occasions submitted requests to keep Captain Hawkeye under your command.”

“Yes, sir. She’s truly one of the most exemplary officers I’ve had the privilege of serving alongside. And I’m quite torn up about losing her to her promotion.”

Plannck considers him closely, only pretending to glance through the papers at his disposal.

“How did the two of you meet?”

“Didn’t your investigation uncover that information?”

“Not with as much detail as I would have liked.”

He and Riza have rehearsed this exact scenario, even though there’s hardly anything they need to fabricate. The only detail they need to emit from their narrative is that Grumman was the initial link between their two households. To fill the gap, they decided to simply say that Roy’s foster mother caught wind of Berthold Hawkeye’s need for an apprentice through general hearsay. It’s not like they need to offer specific details, as their parents truthfully coordinated everything on their behalf.

“Well, her father was an alchemist who was in need of an apprentice. He decided to take me on, and I ended up living with him and Captain Hawkeye for about two and a half years before entering the Military Academy. I returned briefly about a year later to visit and help her coordinate her father’s funeral. We lost touch for a while before reconnecting in Ishval, and we’ve been close friends ever since.”

“Very close it seems. Practically inseparable.”

Roy bristles at the implication in his tone. The entire narrative he just divulged was concise and truthful. They can dig all they want for contradictory evidence; they won’t find any.

“With all due respect, sir, I think it’s reasonable to say that if we were both of the same gender, our friendship would hardly merit a second glance.”

He can feel his temper starting to creep around the edges. His anger seems justified, considering that he’s being falsely accused of a crime that is only slightly more verboten than persistent tardiness.

“That’s very true. But unfortunately, you are not of the same gender.”

Roy discreetly inhales a large breath through his nose.

“If we were trying to carry out an illicit affair, don’t you think we would exercise a bit more discretion than walking through the front door in full uniform?” Plannck doesn’t say anything in response, so Roy continues. “Please, ask as many questions as you like. Compare our stories. I can assure you, there is nothing between us and there never has been.”

Roy restrains himself from saying anything further; already nervous that his frustration will be interpreted as defensiveness. If it is, then so be it. If they insist on extending this charade, he’ll contact a lawyer. Let them launch an investigation. Let them waste their money and manpower searching for something that isn’t there. Let their case fall apart under the scrutiny of a judge. Let them embarrass themselves and expose their desperation.

To his shock, Plannck just gives a small laugh.

“You weren’t even childhood sweethearts?” he asks with a grin, his tone softening into something light-hearted.

Roy relaxes his posture, but refuses to let his guard down.

“When we first met, I was sixteen and she was thirteen. She seemed far too young for me at the time.”

The irony of that statement doesn’t immediately register.

“Understandable.” Plannck shuts the case file laid out in front of him. “Well, General, really our main concern is determining whether or not you’ve expressed favoritism towards her as your subordinate, or if she at any point experienced coercion or harassment under your command. But looking over her record, I see no indication that she achieved her rank on anything but pure merit. And unless she brings forward any complaints against you, I see no reason to continue this inquiry.”

Roy mentally fumbles with the shock of his haphazard dismissal. It has to be a trick. Whoever is pulling Plannck’s strings certainly won’t be happy with his performance.

Although, maybe Plannck was aware all along that this was nothing more than a thinly-veiled show of political theater. Maybe just this once, Roy should have some faith in human decency.

Whatever Plannck’s reasoning, he’s not going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

“Very good, sir. Glad to hear it. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

He rises to his feet, giving Plannck a polite nod as he straightens out his jacket.

“Brigadier General,” the man by the tape recorder suddenly interjects. Roy and Plannck both look at him expectantly, waiting for him to continue as his uncertain gaze alters between the two of them.

“I’m sorry, sir. Please excuse me.” He steps in Roy’s direction, uncomfortably close. Then he reaches a hand towards Roy’s upper sleeve, his thumb and forefinger pinching the blue fabric. Roy glares at him in confusion, until he catches sight of the prize he’s holding between his fingers: a long strand of yellow hair, nearly translucent in the light. Almost the exact same color as Riza's.

Roy knows what they’re both thinking. He doesn’t even need to look at their faces; their silence speaks loud enough.

He has a perfectly reasonable excuse. All he has to say is that the hair belongs to Edward. That explanation shouldn’t arouse suspicion. They live together; they do their laundry together. Ed sheds like a cat. Roy finds bundles of his hair in every corner of the house. In their meals, between the pages of books, in large clumps clogging the drains.

The average person sheds as many as one hundred hairs per day. It’s perfectly understandable that Roy has picked up a few of his housemate's.

That’s what he ought to say.

“That’s a keen eye you have there, Officer. But I can assure you, that hair doesn’t belong to Captain Hawkeye. It almost certainly belongs to my partner, Edward Elric.”

His eyes are fixed on the young man, but his vision refuses to focus. It’s blurring out his face, obscuring his expression.

This is it. He’s crossed the point of no return. It’s over.

“Your partner?” Plannck asks slowly, as if he truly needs the clarification.

“Yes, we’ve been living together since last March. I assume you know him? Long blonde hair?”

His mind is somewhere else right now. It’s in his childhood bedroom, hidden beneath the covers, clutching the stuffed crocodile he used to carry around everywhere.

“Forgive me, General. It’s not an uncommon name. Are you referring to Edward Elric, as in the Fullmetal Alchemist?”

“One and the same. But since our relationship is not relevant to this inquiry, may I be dismissed?”

Plannck opens his mouth, then shuts it again. Roy can see the gears cranking in his head. He’s a senior authority in the Investigations Department. It’s his job to interrogate suspects who are guilty of suspicious and unethical activity. He’s probably wracking his brain for some law that Roy is guilty of violating, some crime that would warrant disciplinary action.

But there’s nothing.

Legally, they’re guilty of nothing. Not under military law, nor the law of the land. No matter what Plannck’s personal biases might be screaming, this matter falls beyond his jurisdiction.

Finally, he gives Roy a slow nod.

“Yes, you may be excused.”

“Thank you, Colonel. Officer.”

He turns his back and walks towards the door. He outranks them both, so he’s under no obligation to offer a salute.

He doesn’t realize until he’s walking down the hall that the tape recorder never stopped running.

 

 

 


	6. Among Others

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I genuinely feel like I'm going to hell for this chapter...

This was a bad idea. An inexcusably bad idea. Maybe just a slot or two below his human transmutation attempt. Seriously, what in the fucking hell was he thinking? Why would he propose spilling their secret no more than a week after withdrawing from a severe depressive episode? Like a recovering alcoholic giving a shrug and deciding that there was no harm in tossing back a shot after a full week of sobriety.

After Roy told him what had happened, his feet sank through the floor and an ugly yellow haze blanketed his vision. He spent the entire weekend pacing around the house, seething and cursing himself through his teeth, sporadically kicking the air, scratching at his knuckles, and even slapping himself across the face so hard that Roy heard it from the neighboring room and came to check that he was okay. The large, red blotch across his cheek and the specks of blood on the backs of his hands were answer enough.

Roy kept assuring him that it wasn’t his fault, but of course it fucking was. It was his idea. Roy never wanted it. And no, everything wouldn’t be okay, despite Roy’s half-assed assurances.

Five days. That’s how long the honeymoon lasted. Five days of morning, afternoon, and evening sex. Five days of Roy reading him cheap paperbacks in the bath, braiding his hair in front of the fire, and ordering take out every night because they were just so disgustingly happy they wanted to maximize the satiation.

They could have lived like that for years if he hadn’t been so fucking stupid.

They’ll get it back, he tells himself. One day, that will be their life again.

Fortunately, his medication seems to be holding strong. He still feels like absolute shit, but it’s different from his regular brand of neurosis. Honestly, he feels like a kid again. Back when there were just too many emotions boiling up inside his compact body: unfiltered, toxic rage and self-loathing, frantic scheming, overwhelming despondence, fear, vendetta, disillusionment, the entire spectrum of human emotion snapping erratically like a pool of piranhas.

Still, at least his paranoia has assumed a backseat role. His physical symptoms have also been manageable. His appetite has held out. In fact, he was ravenous all weekend. He devoured all of their leftover take out and ate more than he’s eaten since he was still supplying the nutrients for Al’s body. He doesn’t feel lethargic either. In fact, he spent a large chunk of the weekend in the basement taking out his frustration on their punching bag.

For the most part, the medication seems to be doing its job and blocking the receptors in his brain. He can only hope that it holds out long enough to carry him through this field of jagged glass he needs to traverse. Currently, it feels like an army pounding a battering ram against a gate. The wood and steel can only take so much abuse before the foundations begin to splinter.

He glances up at the clock. Three more minutes until class is over, then he gets to go home. He strongly considered ditching class, even dropping the semester all together, but Roy urged him to go, insisting that they needed to stay strong and continue going about their business as if nothing was different.

But things were different. This is a fucking paradigm shift. Like the discovery of evolution, or the first time DNA was viewed under a microscope. His world will simply never be the same.

It’s only been three days since Roy gave his testimony. Rationally, he knows that’s not enough time for a rumor to traverse the city and reach the ears of the eight other grad students sitting in his proximity. But the news will spread. Slowly at first, then exponentially. One plus one equals two. Two plus two equals four. Four plus four equals eight. Like cells undergoing mitosis. Sooner or later, everyone will know.

The notebook laid out in front of him is completely blank. Normally he would scribble down some random thoughts in illegible handwriting to at least give the presentation that he's paying attention. But today, he just can’t summon the energy. It’s only syllabus week. Who fucking cares? About anything?

“Alright, I think that’s a good place to stop. We’ll discuss the Gerard reading next week, and I’m having office hours now if you need anything. Otherwise, I’ll see you all on Wednesday.”

Ed flips his notebook shut and stuffs it in his bag; quickly getting to his feet as his classmates pick up their idle conversations.

“Oh, Ed,” Dr. Zainer says just as he’s about to walk out the door. He bristles a bit, afraid that she’s going to call him out for not paying attention.

“Dean Manthen wanted me to tell you, he’d like to see you in his office now if you have the time.”

“Okay, why?”

“I don’t know. Sorry, he just asked me to pass along the message.”

He internally shudders with a bizarre sense of deja vu. This is eerily similar to what Roy went through on Friday. An authority figure summoning him out of nowhere with no agenda. It reeks of something rotten.

No, it can’t be related. There’s no way word could have spread that quickly, over a weekend nonetheless. Sure, Dean Manthen is loosely associated with the military. He’s a panelist on the board for selecting new state alchemists, but they only assemble during exam season. No, Manthen probably just wants to chew him out for being such a piss-poor student and tarnishing the school’s good name.

Again, he can’t find the energy to care.

“Are you alright? Are you feeling sick?” Dr. Zainer asks gently, causing his defenses to go rigid.

He nods his head a bit. “Yeah.”

“The flu’s been going around. Stay home if you need to.”

“Thanks.” With that, he gives her a weak smile and turns away.

 

* * *

 

 

Manthen’s office is located in the oldest building on campus; a gaudy, marble facade inspired by Xerxian architecture, built back when Amestrian scholars regarded Xerxes as the fountainhead for all earthly and heavenly knowledge. At this point, the building has undergone such extensive restoration that it hardly looks original to its era. The exterior looks fake, a reconstructed model of a long antiquated artifact.

The Dean’s Office isn’t so much a workspace as a large parlor room equipped to host the most exclusive private ceremonies: donor cocktail parties, alumni benefits and the like. After his admission was finalized, they forced him to attend a bougie reception where he shook hands with all the faculty while catering staff walked around with trays of champagne and mini quiches.

He remembers explicitly asking not to have his admission announced in the papers. He should have made a bigger fuss when they went ahead and did it anyway.

“Edward, thank you for coming,” Manthen chimes as he pulls open the ornate door and ushers him inside. “I don’t think we’ve had the chance to meet privately since last summer.”

“No, I don’t think so,” Ed replies as he enters the lavish chamber that would fit seamlessly within the Führer’s mansion. His pace falters when he catches sight of an unfamiliar man sitting on one of the green velvet couches in the center of the room. Ed eyes him closely, trying to place him in his memory, but he comes up blank. He’s probably in his thirties, trim suit, large glasses. He springs to his feet when he notices Ed staring.

“Dr. Mitchell Kerver,” he says. “Dean Manthen wanted to introduce us.”

“Cool. Edward.”

The man seems to be waiting for Ed to draw closer so they can shake hands. When he doesn’t, he awkwardly settles back into his seat.

“So, first day of class. Everything going well so far?” Manthen asks in a cheery tone, shuffling over to sit next to the new guy while gesturing for Ed to take a seat across from them.

“So far, yeah,” Ed replies while sitting down and placing his bag and coat at his side. A few awkward seconds tick by as they wait for him to elaborate, but he offers nothing more. Not out of intentional rudeness. He just genuinely can’t think of anything noteworthy that’s transpired in the last couple of hours.

Manthen clears his throat. “I heard from some of my colleagues that you hit a bit of a rough patch last semester. Not with your grades of course, but personally, you seemed down.”

Ed eyes him skeptically. He’s under no delusion that Manthen would stage an intervention to address his emotional well-being. His intentions can’t be that altruistic. Except of course, personal issues dampen his ability to churn out research and publications, which means they can’t parade him around and gloat over his accolades.

Sure, most of his professors are genuinely kind people. It actually surprised him how sympathetic and supportive they were during his episode last semester. But he doubts that the donors footing his tuition fees care in the slightest about his mental well-being.

Is that who this other guy is? What was his name? Kerver? Is he a donor?

“Yeah, it was kind of a hard time. You know how it is.” Again, he refuses to offer any details.

“Have things been improving?” Manthen asks.

“Yeah, I think the worst is over,” he lies. It’s probably terribly unconvincing given his appearance.

“Your professors say they wish they saw more of you. You know you’re welcome to spend time in the common area and around their offices. I’m sure your classmates would also enjoy getting to know you better.”

He strains his cheeks to give a polite smile. “Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind.”

They settle into another uncomfortable silence. Ed drops his gaze to inspect the scabs growing in thin streaks along the backs of his hands, wondering how long it will take for Manthen to trudge through the smalltalk.

Finally the old man breaks the silence, launching in as if it never happened. “I know you’re primarily interested in theoretical alchemy, but an exciting new opportunity just came across my desk that I think you’d be perfect for. A colleague of mine, Dr. Peter Schott, just received a generous grant to conduct a study on applications of geological alchemy in the southern ore mines. He needs a research assistant over the summer. Generous pay and all living expenses covered. If you’re interested, I’d be happy to recommend you.”

He has to admit, he didn’t see that coming. Sure enough, there’s a stack of stapled papers sitting on the coffee table between the two couches, presumably an assortment of all the relevant paperwork.

Unfortunately, he couldn’t accept the position even if he wanted to. Alchemical interns and assistants are always required to perform transmutations as a matter of course. It’s probably not even in the application requirements because it’s so intuitive. It’s not like he wants to spend an entire summer buried in the southern mines, but the fact that he doesn’t even have the option leaves a bitter coat of acid on his tongue.

“Thanks, that’s a really generous offer, but I don’t think I’m cut out for it.”

He’s aware how rude and ungrateful rejecting the offer sounds, but it’s not like he has a choice.

Manthen seems taken aback, clearly surprised by his negative response.

“Edward,” he says gently, almost parentally, “is there any particular reason why you won’t take any courses in applied alchemy?”

Fuck, this can of worms.

He shrugs. “Just not that interested anymore.”

Of course he never informed the faculty that he was physically incapable of performing transmutations. An admission like that would undoubtedly damage his standing, if not also make him the subject of medical scrutiny. He didn’t even inform them that he planned on specializing in theoretical alchemy until his funding was secured. Naturally, Dean Manthen was one of his most vocal opponents, as there was little glamor or prestige in writing up proofs.

Maybe that’s what this meeting is about; a subtle warning that there will be consequences if he doesn’t get over himself and start utilizing the clap alchemy and pyrotechnics that made him famous.

Manthen sighs, his hunched posture deflating even further. “That’s unfortunate. But maybe you could briefly indulge me.” He turns to the end table at his side to lift up a mid-sized terracotta vase sitting on display. Gingerly, he places it on the coffee table. It’s pretty. A rusty red base tone with black figures and motifs curling around the circumference.

“A colleague of mine brought me this as a gift from Aerugo about eight years back. Not valuable by any means, just a local craftsman’s work; but I’ve grown quite fond of it. This unfortunate crack appeared last week,” he says, using his index finger to trace a faint crack extending from the lip of the vase down to the brim of the body. “Would you do me the honor?”

Ed’s stomach flips. No, he can’t. The transmutation circle easily snaps to the forefront of his mind, but he can’t bring it into reality. He can’t fix a fucking tiny crack in a stable vessel. Something that teenagers learn how to do in public school alchemy classes. Manthen is watching him expectantly, and it occurs to Ed that this meeting may have been nothing more than a test all along.

“I really wish I could, honestly. But… I’ve had some very traumatic experiences with alchemy. Experiences that should have killed me many times over. So um… after all that, transmuting can trigger some pretty brutal flashbacks. Kind of like being arachnophobic and sticking your hand in a box of spiders."

To his surprise, Manthen actually looks apologetic. He hums and bows his head while clasping his hands together. Ed had hoped that playing the trauma card would garner some sympathy, but he didn’t expect it to be so effective.

“I understand,” Manthen says solemnly. “I suppose you frequently used your alchemy in combat scenarios, so I can understand the aversion. My son served in the Second Southern Border War, and he still can’t walk on wet floors because it reminds him of walking over blood.”

And Roy can’t eat red meat because the smell and texture remind him of roasted human flesh. War truly unifies everyone from all walks of life.

“The brain works in weird ways,” he says in response.

“That it does,” the man at Manthen’s side interjects, perhaps too enthusiastically for the somberness of the conversation. “Your housemate, Brigadier General Mustang, he’s a state alchemist, right?”

Ed clenches his brow. What kind of fucking left field question is that? Who the fuck is this guy anyway?

“Yeah,” he drawls, telegraphing his annoyance.

“Does it make you uneasy when you see him perform alchemy?”

The warning sirens in his head are wailing on high alert. No, they can’t know. The rumor mill can’t spin that quickly.

“He doesn’t use alchemy around the house. And it’s not like I follow him out into the field,” he responds dismissively.

“But he does specialize in flame alchemy; something famous for its destructive power.”

Why is this guy being so fucking nosy? Why isn’t Manthen cutting him off?

“I’m not scared of alchemy. It just reminds me of a lot of things I’d rather forget.”

Manthen gives a strained chuckle, probably trying to lighten the tension. “If you were scared of alchemy, I doubt you would have lasted in this program past the first day. But still, have you spoken with a therapist about any of this? Such incredible you have, it seems like something worth fighting for.”

He crosses his arms tight across his chest and slouches back against the couch, eager to broadcast exactly how he feels.

“No, I don’t mesh well with therapists.”

“Would you consider giving me a chance?” Kerver pipes up. “I’m an associate professor in the psychology department. I teach courses in behavioral and developmental psychology, and I have my own counseling practice. If you’re open, maybe we could meet sometime later this week.”

There it is. That’s the reason why they called him here. His body goes stiff. The anger he’s been restraining all day is starting to brim at the surface.

“Thanks, but no thanks. I have people I can talk to,” he says through clenched teeth, not even bothering to put on a veneer of congenial courtesy.

“Mustang, you mean?” Manthen asks.

Ed glares at him. His worst suspicions are beginning to unfold right before his eyes.

“Among others.”

The room falls silent. He flicks his eyes back and forth between the two men, like he’s engaged in battle and is trying to determine their course of attack.

Manthen lets out a deep sigh, as if he were the one being put upon. “Edward, please be honest. Are you really renting a room from him?”

Finally, the other shoe drops. Ed can practically hear the resounding thud as it hits the floor.

“I write him checks for rent,” he answers coyly.

“I think you know what I mean.”

The anger in his gut is clawing away at his insides like a swarm of rats. He’s tempted to reach forward and smash the blemished vase over the old man’s head.

“And what’s that got to do with anything?” he grates.

Kerver leans forward, like a teacher tilting low to talk to a child. “Well, your professors say you’ve been very withdrawn and anxious these past couple months, and we just wanted to make sure that you’re in a safe environment.”

“I am, end of discussion."

“So you’re happy with him?” Manthen inquires.

“Yes,” he practically seethes.

He’s just about to reach for his coat and bag when Manthen’s voice stops him.

“I remember your state alchemist exam. I was there. You probably didn’t notice me though. I was chatting with Mustang before you arrived. He spoke about you with such earnestness, such conviction. He was so adamant about recruiting you. I’m not going to lie, it disturbed me a bit. How eager he was to exploit a loophole to enlist a child under his command. And during your exam, I watched him. The way his eyes were trained on you–”

“Whatever you’re going to say next, I strongly suggest you reconsider,” he says slowly, making it clear that it’s not a request, but a warning. He vehemently wishes he still had his alchemy so that he could dismantle this entire building and mark the rubble as a graveyard.

“You’re incredibly intelligent, Edward. You have an analytical mind to rival some of the greatest scholars in history. If you were in my shoes, what would you say about all of this?”

Does Manthen really think he’s so vain that a few snippets of overinflated praise will ingratiate him to the idea that his partner is a pedophile? No, the damage is done. Manthen will have a target on his head for the rest of his life.

“I’d say that it’s none of my fucking business,” he snarls while reaching for his bag. “This was fun. Next time you want to stage an intervention, bring snacks.”

He rises up and begins striding towards the door. His vision instantly goes wobbly from the head rush of standing up too quickly, but he powers through it. This will not be the last word. He will get them back. Viscerally and violently, he will cut the strings at their weakest joints.

“You and Mustang have been together since last March, correct?” Manthen calls out.

Ed’s hand freezes on the doorknob. He’s tempted to ignore the question, walk out, cut them off and deprive them of his attention.

“Yeah,” he replies hesitantly, refusing to look back.

“So you were already involved when he wrote you your letter of recommendation?”

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck.

He should just leave. Escape this pit and never come back.

“You admitted me without any transcripts or test scores. You know damn well that letter didn’t tip the scales.”

“No, it didn’t. It was a formality. But still, we can’t establish unethical precedents.”

Unethical precedents. Like bending every rule in the book to let someone with nothing more than a secondary school certificate and a word of mouth reputation enroll in the most prestigious university in the country, with a full ride nonetheless.

They thought he’d feel obligated to serve as their mascot. Now they’ve resorted to blackmailing him. He’s not even sure why he’s surprised.

“So what do you want?” he grates, still clutching the doorknob tight.

“Just talk with Dr. Kerver for a while, and we’ll put the whole thing behind us,” Manthen replies, the cheery inflection in his voice causing Ed to shudder down to his toes.

He can hear Manthen walking towards the door; the shuffle of his feet changing as he moves from carpet to wood. Ed finally drops his hold on the door and stalks several meters off to the side, unsettled by the thought of even standing within his proximity.

Regardless of what happens next, he has to drop out. There’s no alternative option. He simply can’t remain under the oversight of this man. Fuck, he knew there’d be consequences, but he didn’t expect them to fuck him over this quickly.

What if they don’t let him drop out without a fight? What if they trash talk him to every other institution in Amestris? Manthen has the connections, and the money. He could effectively blackball Ed out of academia permanently.

But again, does he even care?

Finally, he hears the heavy thud of the door falling shut, leaving him trapped alone with the shrink. He swallows, sighs, and shoots the man a look of unrepentant vitriol.

“My next class is in ten minutes, so make this quick.” He stomps back over to the gaudy velvet couch and tosses his bag to the end before slumping down.

“I can do that. Have you ever met with a therapist before?”

“Doctor-patient confidentiality form. Now,” he demands, hoping that the guy doesn’t have one on hand.

“Of course.”

To Ed’s annoyance, he reaches into the leather briefcase at his side and retracts a crisp, typewritten form. “Here you are.”

He places it in front of Ed along with a silver-trimmed fountain pen. The fact that his signature is already neatly inscribed on the physician line infuriates him to no end.

He snatches up the form and reads through it, taking longer than necessary to drag out the time. It all looks standard, no tricks or omissions as far as he can tell, so he begrudgingly uncaps the pen with his teeth and scrawls out his name.

“Isn’t there some cardinal rule about how therapy doesn’t work for people who don’t want it?” he asks while folding the paper in half and stuffing it into his bag.

“That’s very true. Can I ask why you’re resistant to it?”

“Because you don’t know shit about me but you’ve already decided that my boyfriend is abusing me.”

“I don’t think that. Dean Manthen might, but I find that it’s dangerous to jump to conclusions that quickly. I can’t tell you how many times a husband has dragged his wife to me insisting that something was wrong, when in reality her only issue was an unhappy marriage.” He gives a small laugh, but immediately settles back into stoicism when Ed offers no reaction.

“I know you don’t want to be here, and I’m not going to force you to talk under these circumstances. But Dean Manthen made his wishes very clear. He’d like for you to attend weekly therapy with me. If you don’t, I suspect he may push to reduce your funding, or worse. But listen, I won’t pressure you into sharing anything. Just drop by my office once a week; read a book or do your homework, and I’ll tell him that you’re making great progress. How’s that sound?”

Ed scrutinizes him closely, wishing more than ever that he was telepathic. This is why he finds therapists so deeply unnerving. They build their entire careers on false personas, molding themselves into whatever their patients desire. To trust a therapist is like falling in love with a prostitute. They cost about the same as well.

“You teach behavioral and developmental psychology, right? Be more specific. What do you specialize in?”

“Well, most of my patients are women and children who have suffered abuse in various forms.”

“So naturally you’re a perfect fit for me. Someone who is neither a woman nor a child.”

Kerver gives an amused smile. “Dean Manthen certainly has his biases.”

“I guess it’s easier for him to peg me as a victim rather than consider the possibility that his precious prodigy fucks men because he likes it.”

He’d hoped that the vulgarity of his words would spark a reaction, but the man hardly blinks.

“I’m sure you’re sick and tired by now of being treated like a victim.”

“Don’t make presumptions about me.”

“Will you talk with me so I don’t have to?”

“No,” he states empathetically, with no room for compromise.

He can feel the battering ram pounding against the splintered gate. One strike after another, weakening the chemical barrier that’s keeping him steady inside his body. His anger is beginning to drain away as fear rapidly circulates to subsume its role. His leg is starting to tremble. His throat feels tight. The all-encompassing dread of having a panic attack is starting to ferment, chanting in his head, overlapping sirens, his survival instincts dashing in circles, trying to bind everything together, but it feels like the rope is beginning to fray.

No. He won’t fall apart. He won’t give this man the satisfaction. If spite is the only thread holding him together at the seams, then so be it.

“I understand that you’re not publicly out yet, but you probably will be soon. I just want to make sure you have a support structure in place. People you can talk to apart from Roy who can help you if you need it.”

Ed gives no response. Partly out of vindictiveness, and partly because he’s afraid that he’ll start crying if a single word leaves his mouth.

Kerver sits in the silence, staring down at the baroque carpet. “I know you hate me right now. I’d hate me too. I’m sure you experienced enough condescension from authority figures during your time in the military.”

Ed knows that he should remain silent. Wait for the ten minutes to expire. Leave without giving the man a morsel of ammunition. That’s what he should do.

“My fair share,” he replies, barely above a whisper.

“And how did you handle those situations?”

“Property damage,” he snaps without delay.

“Was Roy different?”

Ed glares at him maliciously, causing Kerver to raise his hands in placation, as if he were approaching a snarling animal.

“I’m sorry, I know it’s a sore topic. I don’t want to pressure you into sharing anything. I’m just curious how your relationship came about.”

Ed chews at the inside of his cheek. _Be quiet,_ his instincts are screaming. _Be quiet!_

“Not to brag, but Mustang didn’t even know he was gay until I waltzed in. So if anything, you should be counseling him since I’m the one who fucked him up, not the other way around.”

He clamps his mouth shut, instantly disgusted with himself for divulging that information.

“So you initiated the relationship?”

He nods, unable to speak against the feeling of a hand clenching around his throat.

“Any particular reason why you chose him?”

A traitorous tear slips out of the corner of his eye. In an attempt to hide it, he turns his face to the ceiling high windows that overlook the main quad, but he can’t mask the obvious fact that his nose is starting to run.

“Because I liked him,” he says, sniffing and wiping at his nose with his sleeve. “That’s the only reason. And you know what, I ruined his fucking life. He was all set to run for Führer and achieve all his fairytale dreams. But then I came along, and now he’s going to lose everything just to keep me.”

_Stop talking. Stop fucking talking._

“That’s a lot of guilt to be putting on yourself.”

“I’m used to it.”

“Do you sometimes rationalize ways to put blame on yourself?”

He lets out a pathetic laugh. “Who doesn’t?”

“But Roy is the one who outed you.”

“Because I told him to!” he shouts, unable to contain it any longer.

His outburst pitches them into silence. He glances up at the clock and realizes that their ten minutes has long since passed. But he can’t just leave. Not without knowing what this man intends to do with the information he just spilled. All those weaknesses he could potentially use against him.

He needs clarity. He needs an objective way to figure out what’s going on inside this man’s head. He could just straight up start asking him questions, but he’d most likely tailor his answers to whatever he suspects Ed wants to hear.

Suddenly, an idea strikes. It’s so simple. So perfect. He feels like an idiot for not thinking of it earlier.

“What’s your schedule like for the next hour?” he asks.

Kerver’s face lights up. “It’s completely free.”

“Good, I’ll be back in about forty-five minutes, give or take. I’m leaving my stuff here, so you know I’m coming back.” He stands up and heads in the direction of the door before the man can protest.

“Okay, can I ask where you’re going? Didn’t you say you had class?”

“I lied.”

He lets the door slam behind him.

“Edwa–” Dean Manthen calls from a bench outside his office, but Ed passes him by without a second glance. He stalks down the long empty hallway that reverberates with the sound of his footsteps, then out the main doors and down the marble steps.

He begins his trek across the main quad in the direction of the library. He left his jacket alongside his bag, and the cold wind effortlessly seeps through his long sleeve shirt, but his vigorous pace is enough to keep his blood warm. His tears have stagnated but his nose is still running, but maybe it’s contained enough that people will assume he has a cold.

After entering the lobby of the main library, he bypasses the reference desk and heads straight for the neatly lined rows of card catalogs. Kea-Ked, Kee-Kel, Kem-Ker, he pulls open the long drawer and runs his finger down the rows of small folders, hoping that the spelling in his head is correct.

Ken, Kep, Ker, Kerver. Mitchell T. Kerver. He found him.

He retracts the handful of cards from the small file, immediately skimming the first title. It’s nine words long. Nine words that cause the hand around his neck to clench tight.

 

* * *

 

He violently slams the door behind him, causing Kerver to retract his welcoming smile. Ed slowly stalks in his direction, his fingers digging into the book clutched at his side. He throws it down onto the table, and watches as Kerver’s jaw dumbly drops when the cover is revealed.

“I was going to skim through your journal publications, but you wrote this nice book that saved me the trouble. I’m just glad that only one other person bothered checking it out in the last two years, but that’s still one too many.” The tremble in his voice is gone. The anxiety clouding his senses has dissipated. He feels invigorated, ready to fight.

 _The Neurological Development of Homosexual Disturbance: Causes and Treatments._ That was the title of his book. It’s his only book. Probably the one he needed to publish to get his job at the university. It’s not long, thankfully. Less than three hundred pages and full of images. Ed was able to skim through it cover to cover right there in the stacks, crouching to his knees when the vertigo hampered his balance. The nausea came in waves as he absorbed the text, but he forced himself through the mire, aware that he needed to familiarize himself with his opponent if he wanted to hit him where it hurt.

Ed watches as Kerver tries to reign in the shock and embarrassment of what just transpired. It’s almost comical how blindsided he is by the notion that Ed thought of the ingenious idea of checking his published research.

“So how many sessions was it going to be before you started pushing aversion therapy on me? Did you really think I was that fucking stupid?”

Maybe the man was just conceited enough to think that Ed would voluntarily welcome his services with a minimum amount of manipulation. That an hour of therapy would be sufficient to compel Ed to see the error of his ways. How very academic of him.

Finally, Kerver seems to shake himself free of his stupor.

“Many of the women I work with have undergone severe abuse. A consistent pattern I’ve noticed is that in the aftermath of trauma, they cope by pursuing relationships with other women. Of the male children I work with, nearly all of them were sexually abused by men.”

“Both of those patterns can be explained by the fact that men are fucking awful.”

“Then why are you attracted to them? There’s always a reason, biological or circumstantial. In your case, possibly hormonal.”

Ed actually smiles. It’s honestly a relief that the act is finally gone. He doesn’t have to dedicate any mental energy to weighing whether this man is an ally or an enemy. He doesn’t have to run in circles questioning the fairness of his own feelings.

The hatred he feels is justified. The only downside is that he can’t physically assault this man, which is frustrating. It’d be so satisfying to punch his clean cut face and jam his shattered glasses into his eyes.

“What’s your end game here? What the fuck are you trying to accomplish in publishing trashy speculative research like this?”

The man subtlety flinches, as expected. Ed has spent enough time cooped up with top tier academics to know that they’re all either miserably insecure or flagrantly overconfident in their own intelligence. They deliver their colleagues backhand insults in the introductions of their articles. They lash out at conferences if someone dares to publicly question their conclusions. They’ll hold lifelong grudges against their detractors; even when they know that they’re wrong, they’ll nurse their damaged pride until they make it to the grave.

Fuck, he hates academia.

Kerver drops his eyes to the book lying between them. Even now, it seems like he’s still searching for a way to salvage this. As if there’s anything he could possibly say that will win Ed over to his line of thinking.

He clasps his hands together and sighs. “I simply want to determine why you are the way that you are,” he says softly, without a hint of shame, as if he were a martyr being flogged in the name of Ed’s heresy.

“So you can change it,” Ed replies bluntly.

“Have you ever considered that you might be happier if you could live a normal life?”

Ed’s not going to debate this man. He’s not going to give him the satisfaction. It’s obviously what he wants, and Ed is in no mood to play games.

“No. Because the only reason I can’t live a normal life is because there are too many self-righteous fucks and pseudo-intellectuals like you standing in my damn way! In fact, right now, the only thing that’s making me happy is thinking about the article I’m going to publish that will drown your life’s work in the fucking sewer!”

With that, he snatches the book off the table, flips it open, and rips out a gathering of pages. The brutal sound of tearing paper consumes the entire room. He can almost sense the entire campus flinching from the echo. Under normal circumstances, it’s one of the most terrible sounds in the world. But these are not normal circumstances.

Kerver’s face goes stone-still, his mouth parted in shock. With a manic smile, Ed drops the pages and lets them flutter to the floor. Then he reaches back down and rips out several more sheets. The paper tears easily along the grain; like shredding newspaper to use as kindling.

Kerver watches, speechless for a good while, then he leans back and crosses his arms across his chest.

“I’m used to working with children. I can sit here all day.”

Ed keeps his expression neutral as he tears out another handful. “Good, because I’m having a great time.”

He turns his eyes down to the text in front of him. It’ll take a generous amount of alcohol to scrub this poison from his brain. Still, he persistently scanned through the entire book, motivated by an overwhelming desire to eviscerate the ego of its author.

“Y’know, if you’d stayed in your lane and based everything on anecdotal observation, then sure, I could’ve written it off as cheap psychoanalysis. But you just couldn’t resist dragging the scientific method into your mess. Because you know that the evidence isn’t here. You know exactly how many corners you cut.”

He continues lacerating the pages in time with the cadence of his voice.

“Your sample sizes are pathetic, your understanding of genetic coding never made it past first-year bio, you obviously cherry picked the data from the control groups, and your twin studies are coercive to say the least.”

Kerver valiantly tries to maintain his look of detachment as Ed lists off his mistakes one by one, each fallacy punctuated with another rip resounding against the wood-paneled walls. Is he genuinely surprised that Ed is a speed reader? Did he underestimate him that fucking badly?

He goes on. “Confirmation bias. Inference of association. There’s also a fucking typo. You spelled heterochromatin wrong.”

That’s actually a lie. It’s just fun to see the distress on his face noticeably spike.

With that, the last page is gone. All that remains is the empty shell of the hardback binding. Ed drops it to the floor, satisfied with the sight of the scattered papers surrounding his feet.

“There. That was very therapeutic.”

He reaches over to grab his bag and jacket with a smug smile. It’s largely an act, but hey, that’s what therapists build careers out of.

“Not to be unprofessional,” Kerver pipes up just as Ed is about to turn his back. “But you’re one of the clearest case studies I’ve ever seen for trauma-induced homosexuality.”

Ed looms over him. The man should’ve known better than to have tried to snatch the last word.

“Since we’re not being professional anymore.” Ed chortles in the back of his throat and spits at his face, the lump of saliva and phlegm landing neatly in his hair. “There. Test my hormones from that.”

Kerver can’t resist the impulse to immediately wipe at his hair with his sleeve. While he’s distracted, Ed grabs the splintered Aerugian vase still sitting on the table and walks towards the door.

Manthen is still sitting on the bench where he left him. As Ed exits, the old man’s eyes immediately dart to the precious piece of pottery in his grasp.

“You wanna see me transmute this?” Ed asks, raising it up tauntingly before hurling it to the ground. It smashes upon impact, a flurry of ceramic fragments skidding across the marble floor.

“There. I stopped at the deconstruction phase.”

With that, he turns his back and walks away.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case it's not immediately obvious, I'm a grad student.
> 
>  
> 
> [tw](https://twitter.com/blissymbolics1)


	7. Anonymity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A chapter less than 5,000 words? In my fic? It's more likely than you think.

Around seven in the evening, Roy arrives home to find Ed in the basement assailing their punching bag with such hostility he fears that one or both of them will break in the process.

“Is everything alright?” Roy asks cautiously, leaning over the banner of the hollow wooden steps.

Ed pauses his assault to shake out his hands, which he thankfully went to the trouble of wrapping.

“I’m dropping out,” he states dispassionately before resuming his offense.

“Of school?”

“No, the fucking stamp club – yeah, school!”

~

“Okay, let’s think about this,” Roy says carefully, trying to adopt the calm, calculative demeanor he normally reserves for military operations. “Maybe instead of dropping out you can submit a request for a leave of absence.”

“If I don’t drop out now they’re just going to expel me.”

“We can file a petition. You shouldn’t have to leave because of this.”

“But I don’t want to be there!” Ed shouts with a frustrated growl on the end. Roy can’t remember ever seeing Ed this angry. Not even that night when Ed arrived on his doorstep to curse him out for not responding to his letters.

“I fucking hate it there!” he screams, kicking the bag hard. “Everyone’s so fucking stupid!” He lands a couple more hits, causing the chain hooked to the rafters to creak and moan. “You wanna know who published that shit stain’s book? Central University Press. Y’know, that same place where I’m supposed to be getting an education and shit? They read that fucking trash and decided it fell right in line with their standards. I mean, who in the fucking hell peer reviewed that shit?!”

Ed finally turns away from his assault on the bag to stride out into the middle of the room, where he aimlessly paces like a wild animal in captivity. Roy tries to summon anger to match his own, but there are too many anxious uncertainties and projections weighing him down. He feels like he’s standing in the headlights of an oncoming train. His survival instincts are short-circuiting and trying to devise a way to make the train stop, when their only priority should be getting him the hell off the tracks.

“I just don’t get how people can be so fucking stupid,” Ed sobs, his face starting to contort with oncoming tears. “I mean, it’s the highest ranked school in the country. How can everyone be so fucking stupid?”

Ed presses the balls of his palms up against his eyes, letting out a frustrated cry. This is easier. Roy can handle this. He calmly walks forward and wraps his arms around Ed’s frame, slotting his head atop his shoulder and petting his hair.

His eyes remain dry as Ed sniffles against his uniform. The distress is there. He can feel it mounting. But it’s difficult to decipher his emotions when he still can’t process that this is really happening. If he extracted the clip on Friday, the grenade has officially detonated.

And it’s fucking terrifying.

Presently, he has no frame of reference for how extensive the damage might be. He arrived for work early that morning and left late in order to avoid direct contact with as many people as possible. It was a successful strategy, as he managed to limit his interactions to Riza, his secretary, and a few random people he passed by in the hall.

But he won’t be able to sustain his reclusive act tomorrow. He has too many meetings and appointments lined up on his schedule. But if someone as far removed as Manthen has already heard the news, then everyone employed at Central Command from the generals to the janitors must know by now. But that can’t be the case. Surely Riza would have said something. His secretary seemed perfectly normal, and the people he passed in the halls weren’t shooting him strange looks as far as he could tell.

Despite these assurances, he opens his eyes the next morning engulfed in a sense of dread so profound that it reminds him of all those mornings waking up on the Ishvalan battlefield. At least he’s lucid enough to know that this situation is objectively not that awful. At least he’s not considering slitting his own wrists to avoid the nightmare of getting out of bed; although that’s a pathetically low bar.

Still, touching his feet to the floor feels like a cruel exercise in misery. Especially with Ed curled up right beside him. It takes every shred of self-discipline to pull on his uniform, all the while fantasizing about returning to the warm covers and letting the world spin in his absence. Just letting the universe sort this mess out without his involvement.

But he has to know. The paranoia will devour him if he can’t assess the damage with his own eyes.

He arrives just a few minutes before the start of his shift. He strides through the grandiose halls with his spine ramrod straight and his eyes fixed on the air an inch in front of his face. He tries to subtly sneak glances at the people passing him by, but all of them either ignore him or give him a polite nod.

His secretary greets him with her usual warmth, and Riza enters his office about twenty minutes later to review some corrections to the report they're scheduled to deliver this afternoon.

She doesn’t know. No one knows. Perhaps Plannck and his superiors are the only ones. In a contradictory way, he finds this even more unsettling than the alternative. It means that one of them directly contacted Manthen with the intent of retaliating against Ed.

It makes him sick just how dirty that is. Ed was never supposed to get dragged down in any of this. He was supposed to weather the storm enshrined in his progressive bubble of academia. Roy was supposed to absorb the bulk of the damage. It’s just not fair that Ed would be the one to take the opening blow.

Now they’ve effectively robbed Ed of an education. Sure, he was unhappy in his program, but he always could have transferred to another department. He should have had the opportunity to explore alternative fields. He had time. Mountains upon glaciers of time. Now he may never gain admission to another university, which will permanently scar his career prospects.

Finally, the anger that was lying dormant yesterday begins to ache in his teeth. His desire to retaliate against the university swells menacingly. He’s tempted to contact everyone he knows who’s employed there, consult a lawyer, take them to court for discrimination.

But then – with a sudden wave of nausea – he realizes that he can’t. Society has no legal protections for people like them. Not in the most liberal universities nor the poorest coal mines. Or the military for that matter.

It suddenly dawns on him that they could discharge him today purely on the grounds of unseemly personal affairs and he would have absolutely no legal recourse. Any illusion he had of job security is effectively dead. The rank and status he’s earned over the last sixteen years of meticulous plotting could vanish at any second.

Suddenly every piece of mail in his inbox might as well be laced with poison. He tears open each item in a detached trance, his pulse clenching dangerously tight as he reads each opening line and verifies that it’s nothing more than a mundane piece of correspondence.

He gulps back glass after glass of water and breathes methodically through his nose and mouth, trying to keep himself relaxed even as the walls of his oversized office seem to inch closer and closer. He feels trapped. Like he’s stuck on a sinking ship, powerless to do anything except appreciate these last quiet moments before he sinks beneath the water.

He never should have told Plannck. It was irresponsible to miscalculate so drastically. Of course he anticipated backlash on account of Ed’s age and their shared history, but he assured himself that these controversies would eventually fade with time. For some reason, he barely spared a thought for the millions upon millions of Amestrians who will detest them just by virtue of the fact that they’re both men. Sure, he considered these people in the abstract, but poorly prepared himself for confronting them in physical form.

It’s so frustrating that there are no statistics he can consult. A series of metrics informing him exactly how many people in this country will despise him for his interest in men. He wants everyone categorically sorted, ranging from mildly perturbed to clamoring for assassination.

For once, he may have underestimated just how much prejudice this country carries in its lining. He supposes he can blame his upbringing on that front. He grew up in a brothel where all manner of degeneracy was accepted and celebrated. While most children had a mother and a father, he had a patchwork of prostitutes communally raising him. Many of them carried on committed relationships with each other, oftentimes retiring from the night shift to mutually raise the children their clients gave them.

That was just his normal. He never knew such things were out of the ordinary until his foster mother sat him down and gave him a list of topics that he was not allowed to talk about at school. If he did, she threatened to take away Eyu, the stuffed crocodile that slept by his side every night.

Sure, he was exposed to prejudice simply as a component of daily life, but this was different from racism. It wasn’t part of the national conversation. It wasn’t the subject of protest or legislation. There were no wars raging through its influence. It was underground almost to the point of being invisible. Sure, he found plenty of bigoted mockery in the military, especially during his days in basic training, but it was easy for him to write it off as young and conceited men telegraphing their insecurities.

But maybe that’s just the societal norm. Maybe the matter is unspoken because the default attitude is hatred, and any ulterior viewpoint is unspeakably radical. He doubts that’s the case, but again, he can’t be certain. How can he be thirty-four years old and still feel unexposed to these basic rules of society?

Amestris has been culturally areligious for nearly three hundred years. Prior to that, the country was fiercely puritanical, similar to Ishval in many ways. Anyone who deviated from the laws established by God was punished with exile, torture, and death. Sure, if someone in the present day went around preaching that sexual deviance will be met with eternal damnation, they’d be mocked and scorned for spreading such nonsense. But despite the government’s atheist foundations, society was never fully able to shake off the shackles of self-righteous judgment.

He feels like an absolute idiot for assuming that a decent portion of the population would be indifferent to his preferences. He certainly never anticipated someone like Manthen holding such views. He’s known Manthen for over ten years. They only saw each other for a couple weeks every year during the state alchemist exam period, but when they did interact he was always friendly.He raved about his vegetable garden, doted over his grandchildren, and heaped praise and support on all of the nervous test takers. Roy might even have called them friends. Although Manthen clearly never felt the same, as it took little more than a whisper to convince him that Roy’s been molesting Edward since he was twelve.

That’s another potential casualty Roy never fully considered: exactly how many people will he be forced to cut out of his life when all of this is said and done? He anticipated losing some peripheral acquaintances, but now he realizes that the damage may run far deeper.

He starts listing off all of his contacts one by one. He knows that Havoc and Fuery aren’t biased, as he remembers the matter coming up once or twice just over years of casual conversation. Breda has a gay brother whom he’s very fond of, so he’s safe. Falman? No idea. One after another he goes through the list, and is shocked to realize that the majority of his allies can only be labeled with a question mark.

How is it possible that he’s known these people for years and simply doesn’t know these things?

He’s interrupted from his morbid meanderings by Havoc, who waltzes in with a folder under his arm: their monthly budgetary request for Ishvalan aid. Roy barely pays attention as Havoc lists off the kilos and metrics for the grain, fabric, antibiotics, and water filters scheduled to be shipped out east. Roy approves the inventory on autopilot, wondering if this will be their last interaction before everything goes to hell.

“What? Do I have something in my teeth?” Havoc asks when he notices him staring.

Roy shakes himself out of his stupor. “No, sorry, just somewhat out of sorts.”

He feels like a puzzle being dismantled piece by piece.

“You received a few more pieces of mail, sir,” his secretary says as she drops three envelopes into his inbox.

“Thank you, Claudia,” he replies, making no move to pick them up.

It’s four in the afternoon. He survived all of his meetings. He pushed through the blockades in his brain and successfully satisfied all of his demands and responsibilities for the day. It’s late enough; he could simply ignore the letters and deal with them tomorrow. Right now, all he wants to do is go home, collapse into bed next to Edward, and pretend that he never has to set foot in this building again.

At this point it almost feels like he’s subconsciously hoping that one of the envelopes will contain his discharge forms. At least then he won’t have to relive this hell tomorrow.

The first letter seems safe. It’s addressed from his direct superior, and upon opening it he finds that it’s simply a routine approval form for the aid shipment to Ishval.

The second letter is significantly more suspicious. It bears his name, but no information as to the identity of its sender. He holds it up to the light, but can’t make out anything unordinary. It feels too light and thin to contain the standard issue discharge paperwork, but he can’t be sure of anything in this new phase of reality.

Holding his breath, he tears it open and quickly unfolds the single sheet of paper.

_  
_

_ Brigadier General Mustang, _

_ I hear that things may be getting very difficult for you in the near future, so I am writing to reiterate my previous assurances. I am afraid that recent restrictions on the powers of my office no longer afford me the authority to safeguard your current position. But should you find yourself in need of employment, contact my office. _

_ Führer Eckert _

  


Roy feels like he’s on the cusp of having a heart attack. Eckert was one of the people near the top of his list, and among the most critical. When he initially vetted Eckert, he was too cowardly to outright ask him about his views on the matter, although in hindsight it would have saved him a great deal of distress. When he learned about his granddaughter, he felt reasonably confident that he wouldn’t be drafting up laws to criminalize homosexuality anytime soon, but he never factored in whether or not he would tolerate it among his staff and personal friends.

Roy reads the letter again just to make sure he didn’t miss any underlying messages, to make sure his security is still tangible. After his third read through, he finally breathes a sigh of relief. He’s safe. If everything goes to hell, at least he’ll still have a salary at the end of it. He and Ed won’t have to worry about being forced out onto the streets.

His relief is short-lived, as the third letter is even more suspicious than the second. It also has no return address, and the envelope is different from the standard stationary that everyone in the government uses. But again, it’s too thin, too light, too small. But still strange.

  


_ Dear Brigadier General Mustang, _

_ My name is Rebecca Ratdolt and I’m a journalist at the Central Times. You may remember me as the one who wrote the article on the identity of your birth mother some three years back. If you’re available, I would very much like to meet with you this evening. I’ll be in the coffeehouse on 7th and Stalberg from 5:00-8:00 if you’re available. _

_ Sincerely, Mrs. Ratdolt _

  


Rebecca Ratdolt. Of course he knows her. And she must have some authoritative connections to slip a letter into Central Command’s interdepartmental mail.

He’s done a fair amount of research on her. Early thirties, married with a son in primary school, graduated with a degree in political science only to go straight into a job writing tabloid journalism. Not at her own enjoyment it seems, as she abandoned the field immediately after publishing the exposé on his mother. Since then she has exclusively worked the political circuit, and has broken ground on a number of scandals and political behemoths within the past couple years.

She’s a good reporter, and he can’t find it within himself to harbor any resentment towards her personally. He’s actually very grateful that her initial reporting on his mother was so direct and neutral, without underlying racism or ridicule of his upbringing. A less objective voice may have scandalized his past beyond recovery.

Still, she’s become a point of contact for a lot of powerful people in this very building. If someone among the senior staff wanted to efficiently out their relationship, she would be a credible accomplice.

The minutes tick by as he fiddles with his pen and weighs the pros and cons of taking her up on her request. If one of his superiors informed her of his testimony, then she’ll probably publish the story regardless of whether or not he cooperates. Although, she’s often thorough to a fault in her reporting. She may not feel comfortable publishing this story without verifying it with additional sources. And as it stands now, he and Ed are her only potential sources. On the other hand, if she has a room full of spiteful generals breathing down her neck, then does she really have a choice?

Another problem with her reporting is that her style is so cold and neutral that he has fundamentally no idea what she’s like as a person. He supposes that makes her an ideal candidate for handling this story, but he’s not sure if he can trust someone who isn’t openly in his corner.

He wonders if this is what the rest of his life will be like. Playing this guessing game, trying to tease back strangers’ internal biases, raising his defenses every time he needs to interact with someone new. He can almost feel the tectonic plates shifting beneath his feet as his world reorients itself with jarring momentum.

He folds her note into a small square and incinerates it with a snap of his fingers, along with the note from Eckert. A bit after five, he tells Riza to head home without him. He’s going to stay a while longer, finish up some work for tomorrow. Don’t worry, he’ll get a cab home. She eyes him skeptically, but ultimately agrees to leave him be. He considers telling her the truth, but decides to spare himself the stress. She’ll find out soon enough anyway.

He delays leaving the office until seven o’clock, figuring that the coffeehouse she requested will be deserted around dinnertime. Sure enough, when he arrives at the old but spacious storefront he finds the dark interior almost completely empty, which makes her all the more conspicuous sitting the back corner wearing a bright yellow dress. She has a book set out in front of her, but her eyes immediately dart up once he walks through the door.

“General Mustang.” She stands and extends her hand as he draws closer.

“Mrs. Ratdolt, I presume?” He shakes her hand, and feels relief when she doesn’t recoil at his touch.

“Yes, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

“Likewise. Can I buy you another cup?” he asks, gesturing to the empty one on the table.

“Oh no, I’m fine. And you?”

“I had some at the office.” He drapes his coat over the back of the chair and settles into the seat across from her. “Now then, not to be presumptuous, but I think I have a fairly good idea what this is about.”

“Your hunch is probably correct. I received a call from a high-ranking official this morning. He gave me his full name and everything. My sources don’t usually do that. He said he had some information that I might find interesting regarding your relationship with our beloved Alchemist of the People. Said he had tapes with your confession if I had any doubts.”

Roy tries to put on an easy smile, like this whole fiasco is just another casual annoyance. “Off the top of my head, I can think of at least ten people who your source might be. At least I know it’s a he, which means that General Armstrong hasn’t turned on me yet.”

“I’ll give you that hint for free,” she smiles.

“Well, you are the resident expert on my personal life. So is this an interview or a courtesy notice?”

“An interview, ideally. I know I made my name by sticking my nose in your business, but I have nothing personal against you. In fact, I feel quite indebted to you. Before I wrote that article about your mother, I was writing restaurant reviews. Your story got me my own office.”

“It was genuinely fine reporting.”

“Thank you. I’m sorry for any grief it caused.”

“It’s alright. If you hadn’t discovered it, someone else would have.”

“That’s my view on this matter as well. If I don’t break this story, then they’ll just go to someone else who will.”

Roy tries to repress the shudder that courses through his body as it finally dawns on him that this will be a story whether he likes it or not. Their relationship will be exposed in the media, subject to scrutiny and criticism in the public eye. It’s the exact scenario they had hoped to avoid, especially Ed. It’s not a matter of ‘if’ anymore. Just a matter of ‘how’ and ‘when.’ If he’s counting his blessings, he should at least be thankful that whoever sold him out made the mistake of contacting a journalist renowned for her integrity. A lesser reporter would probably have the headline in the news by tomorrow.

He sincerely wants to trust her with the weight of this matter. On the surface, she seems open-minded enough, but he’s terrified of falling into the same trap as Ed did on Friday. If she is biased, then of course she’s going to use every trick at her disposal to earn his trust. She knows how to insert herself into political orbits, and she’s rubbed elbows with enough high-profile influencers to know that her career and reputation depend upon keeping her personal opinions private.

Up until now, Roy has always relied on the charitable assumption that people will fundamentally favor equality unless their words or actions dictate otherwise. Unfortunately, he doesn’t have the luxury of thinking that way anymore.

“Exactly how much do you know?” he asks, making sure his tone conveys the gravity of the situation.

“Nothing beyond what you said in your confession.”

“It wasn’t a confession. I gave the information freely. Edward and I have been talking about going public for a while now,” he lies.

“You started living together last March, right?”

Roy recoils in apprehension. That’s the same minor detail that Manthen held over Ed. It’s really the only detail that anyone outside of their inner circle knows at this point. And it’s still within his power to keep it that way.

“I understand that it’s your job to be impartial, but what was your initial reaction when you heard the news?”

“Disbelief,” she answers with a smile. “After the coup, I was assigned to dig up dirt on your personal life, so naturally I delved into your dating history. You’ve certainly mastered the art of misdirection.”

He gives her an amused smile to hide his internal dread at the thought of her chasing down and interrogating all of the women who knew him in that state of vulnerability.

“But apart from that, how do you feel about Edward and I as a couple?”

“What do you mean?”

“Ethically, how do you feel?”

Her cheerful disposition slowly withdraws into neutral professionalism. Roy grows increasingly nervous as he watches the subtle changes in her expression. Without saying a word, she reaches into the bag at her side and withdraws a large black binder, setting it down on the table in front of him.

“This is my portfolio. Copies of all the articles I’ve written within the past three years. If you want to assess my neutrality, please base it on what I’ve written. I can promise you I have no interest in writing tabloid journalism. I was forced to do enough of that during my younger years.”

Roy glares down at the binder laid before him, trying to compartmentalize the content and the person. He’s always made an effort to place logic over sentiment, to trust objective analysis over sensory perception; but her request to ignore her personal leanings in favor of the cold, hard evidence condensed into a stack of papers practically verifies his worst suspicions.

“I’ve read all of your work. I know that you’re honest, and thorough. But every morning I put on my uniform and force myself to make polite smalltalk with people who would like nothing more than to exterminate the rest of Ishval. People who have proposed invading neighboring countries for no other reason than to reinvigorate dependence and fear in the population. People who now see me as something immoral and unnatural. I can put on my mask and talk to these people about the weather or their holiday plans, but I will never make myself vulnerable to them. I will never take the peace I’ve cultivated at home and put it on display for them to judge. So tell me, are you one of these people?”

She looks taken aback, even offended at being confronted with such a loaded question. One that challenges her very human decency. But beneath the gravity of his words, he’s practically on his knees begging for the barest of crumbs.

Finally, after an excruciating spell of silence, she squares her shoulders and looks him dead in the eye, like a witness facing down her prosecutor.

“I’ve interviewed the same people that you’re talking about. I’ve heard them espouse the cruelest ideologies imaginable. And so many times I’ve been tempted to sneak in judgment. Disapproval. Anger. But I never have. At least not while I’ve had the clout to write my own words.”

Roy tries to reign in his disappointment at her circuitous non-answer. If that’s the best she has to offer, it’s not nearly enough. Doesn’t she understand? He doesn’t care about her integrity. All he cares about is whether or not she perceives him as fundamentally unequal. Is her impartiality truly so valuable that she’s willing to sabotage his trust to preserve it? Or does she genuinely detest him, and can’t even summon the courage to lie?

“I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I have to decline,” he says bluntly, standing and reaching for his coat before she has a chance to protest.

“Is there anything I can do to make you reconsider?” she asks as she stands up along with him.

_ Just tell me that you have a gay acquaintance. A relative. A coworker. Just tell me that you don’t find my relationship reprehensible. Give me the faintest hint that you don’t believe my rights should be less than yours.  _

“I know several journalists who are sympathetic to my kind. I’ll give my story to one of them. A colleague of yours, Mr. Caxton, I’ll contact him tomorrow morning,” he replies while shrugging on his coat.

“The story won’t have as much credibility coming from a biased source.”

“This isn’t a story, it’s an interview. You’re an impressive investigative journalist, but there’s nothing here for you to investigate. There’s no paper trail, no witnesses, no cover up, nothing. It’s just me and Edward. There are no secondary sources you can use to verify our claims. This is our life, and I don’t feel comfortable sharing it with you. Have a good night.”

He gives her a smile as he turns his back and begins walking in the direction of the door. She doesn’t call after him, but he can hear her low heels clattering behind his footsteps.

Ed is waiting for him at home. He’s probably sick with worry. Everything is moving too quickly. How is he supposed to break the news that broad public exposure may now be their only viable protective measure? Their relationship will be plastered in papers all across the country whether they like it or not, but there’s still enough time to seize control of the narrative before it’s stolen from them.

Ratdolt manages to catch up with him at the end of the block as he waits for the traffic to pass. “I won’t tell my source that I won’t be writing the article. I still owe you.”

Roy looks down at her, shocked at the surge of gratitude those words evoke, which makes it all the more frustrating that he can’t afford to trust her. And yet, he still believes the sincerity of her assurance. 

He expects that his life will only get more confusing from this point on.

“Thank you,” he replies genuinely, then continues forward as the light turns green.

“Wait!” she calls, sprinting alongside him. “Whoever you go to, make sure they include a picture of Edward. You probably don’t realize this, seeing him everyday, but he became a celebrity at twelve and disappeared from the limelight at sixteen. In many people’s minds, including my own, he hasn’t aged a day since then. Including a picture will at least let people see that he’s not a child anymore.”

Roy doesn’t even know how to formulate a response to that statement. The accuracy of it is deeply disconcerting. It never even occurred to him that Edward doesn’t exist as an adult in the consciousness of the country, which is the reason why he’s almost never recognized in public.

She’s right. They need to ensure that every citizen has access to an image of Edward as he is today.

Anonymity. That’s all Ed wanted. And it may be the next sacrifice that he’s forced to make.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe we're about a third of the way through!
> 
> btw, I just wanted to let you guys know that I’m planning to take a short break from this story for a couple weeks to catch up on future chapters and let my brain rest. But I’m happy to say that the full story is drafted and most of the dialogue is finished!
> 
> I also have a fun sex work AU one shot in my drafts that refuses to stay on the back burner, so I’ll probably write that up before uploading the next chapter, so look out for that! It’ll be nice to take a short vacation from all this plot and angst :)
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/blissymbolics1)


	8. Trysta

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that sex work AU ended up being a bigger fish than I bargained for, as these things typically go. That multi-week break didn't really work out either. So here's some cute and sad stuff!

“Oh yeah, I know the manuscripts you’re talking about,” Sheska says, her face lighting up. “The ones that came from the library of the Ingstolt family back in 1862.”

“Yep, those are the ones,” Ed nods. “Roy transcribed five of them last summer, but he’d really like to get copies of the remaining twenty-one. But he’s been really busy lately, so he thought maybe he could hire you or someone else from the library to copy them out.”

“Oh sure, I can take care of that for him. Although it’d be faster to just take pictures. The film would be expensive, but since they’re in another language it might be more reliable than my handwriting.”

“Yeah, that sounds great. And don’t worry about the cost; he’s taking this out of his grant funding.”

“Great.” She smiles as she wheels her chair over to her desk to grab a bulky planner that’s bursting with bookmarks.

Ed sinks back in relief. Today was his last opportunity to secure copies of the manuscripts. The article is scheduled to drop tomorrow, and he has no plans to venture out into public anytime in the near future. He felt guilty for calling Sheska up with such a last minute favor, especially since they haven’t caught up in nearly six months, but she really was his last resort.

She left the military roughly two years ago after the library rehired her to serve as the head librarian of the special collections department, making her one of the only people in the country with privileged access to Central Library’s classified materials. He can only hope that she’ll carry through on this favor after the news hits tomorrow. He’s actively trying to give the people in his life the benefit of the doubt, but after what happened at school, he can’t afford to be generous with his optimism. Right now he’s bracing himself for the very real possibility that he’ll never see those manuscripts; and lose Sheska along the way.

“You know,” she intones as she wheels back in his direction, “I think General Mustang might be the first person who’s looked at those manuscripts in over a decade. It’s a shame that people don’t utilize the Xerxian collections as much as they used to. Do you know what kind of research he’s doing?”

Ed anticipated a question along those lines, but he still procrastinated on preparing an answer. He considers shrugging it off, saying he doesn’t know, making a joke about how he’s just the errand boy. But her face is so sincere and curious, and lying seems like a bad idea since she’ll probably figure it out sooner or later anyway.

“Okay, don’t tell anyone,” he whispers playfully, leaning in close, “but he’s kind of doing this as a favor to me. I’ve been researching Xerxes for the past year or so.”

“That’s great! I mean, no, of course I won’t tell anyone, but what kind of research is it?”

“For the moment I’m just trying to nail down the language,” he laughs, trying to hide his inkling worry that she might rat him out. “But hey, um, what exactly are the legal protocols with publishing on materials from the restricted collections?”

He asked Roy the same question yesterday, but to his annoyance, Roy just gave him a blank stare and said he had no idea. Figures. The guy puts two spaces after his periods; of course he’s never published anything professionally.

_Sorry, but I haven’t written a research paper since I was sixteen._

_But isn’t there a whole section on publishing in the state alchemist handbook?_

_I never read that section. And evidently, neither did you._

Ed couldn’t argue with that. But if there’s anyone in Amestris who did memorize that section, it would be Sheska.

“Well, unfortunately, you as a civilian can’t publish anything on the manuscripts unless the library gets government approval to make them publicly accessible. General Mustang can publish anything he likes as long as it gets approved by the military. But y’know what, if you like, I can submit a petition to have the manuscripts declassified. As far as I know they don’t contain anything relevant to national security, and I doubt there’s anyone left alive who even remembers why they were classified in the first place,” she laughs.

“I think I know why,” he says, pausing dramatically. “They’re medical texts. On human bio-alchemy.”

Her brow rumples in confusion. It’s amazing how her features can seamlessly convey exactly what she’s feeling.

“Huh, why would the government care about classifying that?”

Ed just stares at her neutrally until her face blooms with realization.

“Oh, right.”

“Yeah, I don’t think filing a petition’s going to do much good. But still, I’d really like to get copies just for personal use.”

“Sure, of course. I’ll put down General Mustang’s name for everything. Just, you know, be discreet with who you talk to. He’ll probably get in trouble if the military finds out that he’s been sharing classified information with you, even if it is pretty harmless.”

Ed almost laughs. Come tomorrow, a couple of dusty manuscripts will likely be the least of their worries.

“Will do. Also, um, this would be a really big favor, but um…” He pulls a slip of paper from his pocket, rubbing it a bit between his fingers. “Could you remove this book from the stacks? Like just remove it, as if it was never there?” he asks, handing her the piece of paper, which bears the title, author, and call number of Kerver’s book.

He originally planned on doing this test before inquiring about the manuscripts. He thought it’d be a decent way to gauge her reaction, tease out her position on the issue. But he flaked out at the last second. For some reason, asking a librarian to remove a single book from circulation feels more outrageous than requesting something explicitly illegal.

His neck starts to sweat as she reads the note, and his stomach plummets when he sees apprehension emerge on her absurdly expressive features.

“Um… well, there’s kind of this code of ethics for librarians. We’re never supposed to remove or destroy materials that go against our personal beliefs.”

Ed internally crumbles in disappointment, even though that’s roughly the answer he was expecting. At least she hinted that she doesn’t support the book’s thesis, which is probably the best outcome he could have hoped for.

“That’s okay, I understand.” He smiles weakly.

“But maybe I’ll check it out for myself. Then renew it. Then when that time’s up, maybe I can get Michaela at the front desk to check it out. Then maybe I’ll check it out again. As librarians, we’re allowed to check out books for up to six months.”

The anxiety in his body dissipates. He raises his eyes to her stupidly earnest face, wondering if she’s aware just how much weight this simple favor carries for him.

“Thank you.”

“No problem. Oh, after I’m finished, would you like to pick up the photos here or should I mail them to you?”

“I think mail would be best.”

The address he gives her is not his own. It belongs to his temporary home; the place where he and Roy will be staying for the next couple days or weeks depending on how the circumstances pan out.

When Roy suggested that they ask his foster mother to put them up for a while, Ed enthusiastically agreed. Primarily because he thought it meant that he’d finally get the chance to see the inner workings of a brothel. But to his disappointment, he found out that Chris doesn’t actually live in the main establishment, but in an apartment building a few blocks away.

Leave it to Roy to crush his dreams and rub salt in the wound by relentlessly teasing him for how excited he was about the prospect of staying in a bordello. But it wasn’t fair. Sure, it might seem like old news to Roy, but Ed deserved at least a couple days to see what all the fuss was about.

Apparently Roy dramatically demolished Madame Christmas’ last establishment in the prelude to the Promised Day. She went underground for a while before resurfacing with a generous insurance claim lining her pockets, no doubt in thanks to a little leverage on Grumman’s part. With the money, she was able to wholesale purchase an attractive three-story building in one of the more affluent parts of town. The ground floor served as the bar, lounge, performance space, and generally the area where people kept their clothes on, while the top floors were uniformly outfitted with blackout curtains.

Regardless, he is glad to have a more discreet location where they can bury themselves for a while. They both agreed that the best course of action would be to board up the windows and wait out the media storm on the horizon. Roy’s address is a matter of public record, so there will likely be reporters camped out on their stoop, and possibly graffiti or even vandalism, which he doesn’t even want to think about.

Riza has already agreed to collect their mail and keep them updated on the situation. She even promised to coordinate any repair or clean up services that may be necessary. Even though the odds of housebreaking are slim in such a highly monitored neighborhood, they still decided to pack up all of their valuables, which turned out to be less than they expected. Ed didn’t need to bring much besides his father’s notes and some sentimental knickknacks. Roy had a bit more, including a large box that contained some of his most important childhood possessions, but everything they wanted to bring easily fit in one carload.

Even though Ed doesn’t have many material objects to his name, their house as a whole is his greatest sanctuary. He doesn’t even want to consider the possibility that they’ll be forced to move permanently. He loves their boring, mundane brownstone with the overgrown backyard, cold floors, and walls that they’re not legally allowed to paint. It’s the first permanent home he’s ever paid for, even if his name’s not on the lease and he only contributes a fraction of the total cost.

It’s theirs though. And he’d like it to stay in one piece until they can safely return.

At least the one upside of staying at Chris’ place is that he gets unrestricted access to the new baby; and after Roy dropped him off this morning he got to spend several hours learning how to care for her tiny, squishy body.

Roy never mentioned that the baby was Ishvalan, although he probably didn’t know. If Ed had to guess, he’d say that she’s probably half and half. Her skin isn’t much darker than his own, but she has unmistakably maroon eyes and the whitest tufts of hair he’s seen on anyone, young or old. He was tempted to ask which side she got it from, but ultimately decided that it was none of his business.

She’s five weeks old now, and her mom still hasn’t returned. At this point it seems unlikely that she will. He still finds it hard to believe that her mother could simply walk out on her. Even if she had her reasons, he doesn’t understand how she could physically endure the separation. He’s only known the baby for several hours, and already he misses her.

She’s so absurdly small, and her skin has this sticky shine to it, like a freshly peeled piece of fruit. Her name is Trysta, which is far too close to his mom’s name for his liking, so he’s just been calling her Baby more often than not.

After leaving the library, Ed tries to catalogue and appreciate the ambiance of his surroundings. This will probably be his last day of freedom for a vey long time. It may be the last day of his life that he can safely emerge in public without the risk of being assaulted by a barrage of onlookers.

He understands why they needed to submit a picture for the article. He fucking hates it, but he understands.

In all fairness, Roy agreed to submit a photo of himself too. Not just in the interest of mutual suffering, but for the sake of visual manipulation as well. Anyone off the street would acknowledge that Roy looks young for his age, and out of uniform he can solidly pass for being in his mid-twenties. Ed can’t pass as much older than he actually is, but when looking at their pictures side by side, devoid of context, the vast stretch of time between their births doesn’t seem so damning.

They originally planned on taking new pictures, but they decided to scrap that idea as the days passed and their sleep deprivation and stress lines grew more pronounced. They quickly realized that their current appearances didn’t exactly assure their mutual happiness. Ed especially, as he was still recovering from the physical effects of his episode. His skin was still patchy and flaky from poor care, and his weight loss left barely a shadow of muscle tone on his body.

So instead, they dug through the piles of photos they took last summer. Roy had just bought a new camera, which they promptly began using for unspeakably dirty things. Once the novelty of that wore off, they started randomly snapping pictures of each other. Reading on the couch, washing dishes, stacking the fireplace; they joked that they were jointly transforming into Hughes, but there was something about the summer light and domestic isolation that made the scenes they captured so intimate.

Intimate to the point where submitting even two of their most innocuous portraits felt almost as violating as showcasing the pictures they took of each other masturbating.

Again, he understands. The reporter they went to offered to organize a photoshoot, but they knew there was no amount of studio staging that could capture the essence of them being happy and healthy in their own home.

Roy was lying when he told that reporter lady that he knew several journalists sympathetic to their kind. In actuality, he only knew one. A man named Charles Caxton who published an article last year on the tragic state of Central’s male sex work industry.

According to Caxton, the majority of Central’s male prostitutes were offering their services on the street. Many of them were underage and turned to prostitution after running away or being forced out by their families. They were uniformly living in poverty and didn’t benefit from the unionized organization and even growing social acceptability that female prostitutes enjoyed. The salacious nature of the article made it exceedingly popular, but naturally it didn’t lead to any push for policy reform that would help the victims.

Caxton agreed to take their story without much coaxing, and they talked in circles trying to pin down the best way to go about it. Or at least Caxton and Roy did, while he sat off to the side picking at his nails and anxiously listening to the people passing by in the hall.

Ed still hasn’t read the final draft of the article, and he has no desire to. He knows that they ultimately agreed to keep it short – less than three hundred words, whittled down to just the basic facts without any superfluous adverbs or anecdotes.

Caxton initially suggested publishing the article as a straight interview, but they shot that idea down pretty quickly. It reminded them too much of those plastic wedding announcements that the blue blood families like to put out and pretend they didn’t rehearse. It felt fake; like they were trying to fool people into thinking this was voluntary. As if anyone would actually believe that they loved each other so much they just had to share it with the world.

No, they were doing this under duress, and they wanted people to know that, even without explicitly naming names.

Ed initially planned on wandering around the city for the rest of the day, but their arrival at Chris’ place ended up being poorly timed, as today just happened to be the day that one of the girls in her employment was scheduled for an abortion. Under normal circumstances, Chris would go with her to the clinic, but with Roy at work and Ed going to the library, she had no choice but to stay home with the baby. Of course Ed offered to cancel his appointment with Sheska, but Chris all but shoved him out the door. Said he needed the fresh air while he could still get it.

It’s mid-afternoon by the time he arrives back at the upscale apartment building that he’ll temporarily be calling home. He rides the elevator up to the fifth floor and he can already hear the faint, muffled cries of the baby from the hallway. Unlocking the door with his spare key, he pushes it open to see her lying on her checkered mat in the middle of the living room. His heart palpates a bit when he sees her thrashing around, her face red and mouth wide, rubbing her little hands against her sobbing face. Chris is talking on the phone in the corner of the room, and as he enters she puts a hand over the receiver to call out to him.

“Hey, kid, be a doll and make her a bottle.”

“Yeah, sure,” he replies as he kicks off his shoes and watches her return to her conversation. Above the crying, it sounds like she’s talking with one of the girls who went to the clinic this afternoon.

Ed makes his way to the kitchen and goes through the motions Chris showed him this morning of mixing the formula and testing the temperature. Then he returns to the living room and scoops the baby into his arms, reveling in the immediate silence the bottle brings.

He had a turn feeding her this morning too, and decided that it was one of the most infuriatingly adorable things he’s ever seen. Right now he’s still in the early stages of infatuation, but his instinctual affection will probably be tested by nightfall. Chris said she’s a fussy sleeper, and the bags under her eyes are pretty damning. But apparently Trysta’s favorite way to sleep is nestled against someone’s chest, and he can’t deny that he’s been looking forward to experiencing that all afternoon.

After a bit she pulls away from the nipple and lets out a little sigh. He wipes away the dribbles of milk from around her mouth as she flexes her whole body and emits a string of high-pitched whines. One of her tiny hands reaches out to latch onto the fabric of his shirt, causing his entire body to erupt in pleasant warmth as he watches her relax into a blissful daze.

“Alright, I’ll be over in half an hour or so. Yeah, bye.” Chris hangs up the phone and settles back into her large recliner.

“Is Teresa doing okay?” Ed asks.

“Yeah, she’s fine. She’ll be off duty for a couple nights, then I’ll put her on bar shift for a few weeks. I’m just glad she caught it early. The doctor said she was only four weeks along.”

Ed wonders if Chris talked like this around Roy back when he was growing up. If she made any attempt to disguise or sugarcoat the gritty details of sex and its consequences, or if he was fully exposed to it from his earliest days of language comprehension.

“Is it common for the girls to go through with pregnancies?” he asks, slightly embarrassed, even though he’s learned from Roy that there are very few taboo conversation topics in this household. He’s curious though, because clearly at least one girl did.

“Once in a while,” she answers, seemingly unfazed. “When I hire girls, I make the conditions clear: if they want to keep a baby, they can’t raise it under my roof. I know that sounds harsh, but kids are just too much of a liability.” She sinks further back in her chair and heaves a sigh. “They’re always so sure they’ll have no hangups about letting one go. They’re sure right up until it happens.”

He looks down as he feels the baby release her grasp on his shirt. With an uncoordinated tremble she brings her hand up to rub at her face, sort of like a kitten learning how to clean itself. Ed tilts her up vertically so he can huddle her against his chest, just like how Chris said she likes to sleep.

He can certainly empathize with the women who chose their unborn children over their employment. He’s not sure he’d be able to go through with an abortion if he were in their shoes, unless he was desperate to the point of starvation. Although, having a newborn softly breathing against his chest might be distorting his rationality a bit.

“The brain undergoes extreme changes during pregnancy,” he says while rubbing Trysta’s back. “Hormones can start facilitating attachment just weeks after conception.”

“Believe me, I know. I had to let two go back when I was still a working girl. Hardest decisions I ever had to make.”

“More than adopting Roy?”

“Pff, that one was easy,” she says with a smile. “He came at least three weeks early. Barely weighed more than a can of beans. I knew he didn’t have a chance of surviving in an orphanage, and I wasn’t banking on Grumman taking him off my hands. Sure, there were rough nights when I thought about dropping him off in foster care when he got a bit older, but he was always a charmer, and he hooked me good.”

“And what about this one?” he asks, giving the baby a pat. “She seems pretty charming.”

“She’s gonna be trouble one day. But unfortunately I don’t have any illusion that I’ll be around long enough to see her grown. I’m afraid my role with this one will be temporary.”

Her words cause a sheen of moisture to blanket his eyes, which he hastily blinks away. He supposes it’s always sad to hear old people acknowledge their mortality, but the thought of the little girl in his arms having such an uncertain future just tugs on a nerve.

“It’s a shame too,” Chris continues. “Her mom really wanted her. Never even debated it. Had names picked out at three months and everything. I had everything arranged for her too. I moved her in with some other girls who left the business a while ago, and I got her a job working in a friend’s shop.

“But right after the kid was born, something changed. She could barely hold her, wouldn’t eat, or get out of bed. I didn’t think much of it. It happens sometimes with new mothers. They usually get over it after a few weeks. But I’ve never had a girl just run out.”

Ed has to clear away the ache building in his throat. He can’t imagine going through all the trouble of bringing this little bundle of cells into the world and then just walking out on her. Even if her mother was suffering from some serious postpartum mental issues, it sounds like she was surrounded by people willing to help her. Maybe she felt scared or ashamed about seeking help, but she certainly needed it if she regressed to the point where abandonment felt like the best option. He knows it’s unfair to judge her since mothers have to deal with enough of that already, but it’s hard to suppress it when he has the collateral damage nestled in his arms.

Chris reclines deeper into her chair, clearly exhausted from all the sleepless nights she’s been getting.

“My hope is that she just needs some time to work things out and she’ll come back when she’s ready. But my cynical side wonders if she couldn’t handle the thought of raising an Ishvalan child.”

At least that answers his question regarding which side she gets it from.

That explanation would neatly tie everything together, even though he’s reluctant to believe it. He doesn’t want to accept that a mother could spend nine months growing a life inside her body only to throw it away just because her child’s hair, eyes, and skin didn’t match her own. He’s never met this woman, but it’s hard to accept someone that reprehensible existing.

“Did she ever say anything to indicate that?” he asks.

“No. It never came up. I hope it ain’t the case. She came from a hardline military family though. The kind that can drill cruel things into your head. Even if you don’t realize it.”

At least that gives him some reassurance. He hopes that Chris is wrong. He hopes that she’s just going through a rough postpartum experience and she’ll come back once her brain chemistry plateaus. After all, how could anyone look at this little girl and not love her unconditionally?

“I take it you weren’t on board when Roy decided to join the military then?” he asks, attempting to lighten the mood.

“He didn’t get the idea from me, that’s for sure,” she scoffs. “I blame it on the school system. They had recruitment officers coming to his class in grade school. The teachers made the kids write out these essays asking how they planned to serve their country. The whole thing made me sick. But of course any trash I talked about the military he’d just go repeating, so I tried to keep a lid on it. I figured he was smart enough to develop a hint of commonsense at some point.”

Ed doesn’t really know the full scope of Chris and Roy’s relationship, but apparently they had something of a falling out after Roy decided to enlist in the military at eighteen. According to Roy, they didn’t fully reconcile until after he returned from Ishval.

“I think he did,” he replies. “If not a little late.”

“Yeah, well, once he set his heart on becoming a state alchemist it was all downhill from there.”

“When’d he decide that?”

“Can’t remember exactly.” She shrugs. “He won some awards in school. His head got big, and he decided he wanted the cushiest job in the military. This was back before Ishval. The state alchemists had never been deployed in field combat before. When he made his name in flame alchemy, I don’t think he put two and two together that they planned on using him for more sinister things than dousing forest fires. All this antiestablishment coup plotting didn’t make his agenda until after he got back from Ishval. Before that, he was the perfect little soldier boy.”

Ed tries to envision a young Roy Mustang. A half-boy half-man full of idealism without an anarchist bone in his body. A Roy who spoke about the strength and glory of the military without a hint of irony. Ed shudders at the thought. He’s glad their age difference effectively prevented them from ever meeting.

“I’m glad I didn’t know him back then” he laughs. “I probably would’ve hated him. It’s so weird to think about what he was like when he was younger. He was a fully certified adult when I first met him. It’s hard to imagine that he was small once.”

“He was more than small; he was puny. Couldn’t lift his own head until three months old,” Chris chuckles, followed by a dry cough at the end.

“Was he cute?”

“Eh, once he grew into his face.”

Ed wants to ask if she has any pictures, but Roy would probably throw one of his stoic tantrums if he found out that they went behind his back like that. Still, he can’t help but contemplate what his already round face might have looked like all scrunched up and full of baby fat.

He wonders if there are any surviving pictures of his mother. If Roy even knows what she looked like. Ed tries to picture her, all alone in Amestris without any family or home of her own, rubbing her pregnant belly and thinking about the child she was going to raise, only to have her life brutally cut short.

“And his mom really wanted him?” he asks, somewhat nervous, lest he forces Chris to speak ill of the dead.

“Yeah, she did,” she answers with a tired smile, looking more than ever like a beleaguered grandmother.

Just then, Trysta starts heaving out little fussy sounds as she rubs her face back and forth against his shirt.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” he coos while lifting her head up a bit over his shoulder. Almost instantly, she goes quiet and settles back into tired complacency.

“Well, that was easy,” he remarks.

“She probably just didn’t like the feel of your shirt. She’s a picky little bug,” Chris says while pushing herself out of her chair with a groan. “Well, it’s time for me to head out. Call the bar if you need anything. I usually get home around three in the morning, so don’t freak out if I wake you.”

“Okay, have a good night.”

“You too. Have fun with the kid.”

She gives him a final wave as she shrugs on her coat and walks out the door, leaving him completely alone with the baby for the first time. He glances at the clock and is relieved to see that Roy should be arriving in an hour or so. That’s not much time to kill, and Trysta seems to be in a decent enough mood.

Trying not to disturb her, he slowly lays back against the arm of the couch and kicks up his feet. Trying to keep his arms steady, he subtly shifts his weight until he’s settled in a comfortable position. He pulls down the blanket that’s draped over the back of the couch and covers them as best he can with one hand.

Lying here, with a brand new human curled in his arms, it’s difficult to comprehend how drastically his life is going to change tomorrow. Most things in life are unpredictable, but at least they more or less follow predictable trajectories. Your house is robbed, you file an insurance claim, you cry over what’s irreplaceable; it’s stressful, normal, predictable.

But no one has ever experienced what they’re about to go through. Come tomorrow, they will be the most high-profile openly gay people in the country. They’re clearing the trail; wading into unknown territory. Other people down the line will make decisions based on their experiences. That’s no small amount of pressure.

Still, having a baby in his arms marginally eases the terrifying call of the unknown. It’s only been one day, but already he’s much happier taking care of her than he ever was at school. The spell might break after his tenth diaper change, but for the moment, he’s perfectly content to lie here and wonder if he’ll ever get the opportunity to raise kids of his own someday.

He imagines returning to Risembool and inheriting Pinako’s house, presuming that Al and Winry don’t put up a fight over it. He thinks about finally fixing the damn heating system, patching up the attic, and adopting a baby that he can fuss over and embarrass just like his mom did to him.

From what he’s heard, the legal standards for adoption are a lot more under the table out in the countryside. He supposes his own childhood is a testament to that, considering that he and Al never once received a visit from a social worker in all the years they lived on their own.

The light grows dimmer as he dazes and envelopes himself in the baby’s scent. When her smell plummets into something categorically awful, he obediently gets up to change her. She starts crying as soon as he places her down on the changing mat, and continues wailing even after he has her cleaned up and clothed in a fresh onesie.

She shouldn’t be hungry yet, but he tries making her another bottle anyway. She sucks on it for maybe a few seconds before spitting it out and continuing to dramatically sob. He anxiously cycles through all of her other basic needs, but nothing seems to calm her down.

“Are you being cranky?” he asks while rocking her on the couch. Her face seems to relax for a split second before scrunching back up.

“Don’t be like that. However bad you think your day is, I can promise you that mine is going to be much worse.”

He continues rocking her as he tries to recall all the snippets of advice that Chris listed off this morning. She said she likes music, so long as there are lyrics. She supposedly really likes listening to people talk, no matter the content.

“You are so tiny, you know that?” he coos, trying to relax and ease the stress in his frame. “You’re only five weeks old. Can you believe that? Only what, thirty-eight days? That means this single day is almost three percent of your entire life. I wonder if a full day for you feels like an entire year for me? That’s wild to think about.”

The lull of his voice seems to calm her a bit. Her cries are growing progressively shorter as her enthusiasm seems to wane. He wonders if she’s just trying to keep up the act; maybe she’s too stubborn to admit that she’s already forgotten what upset her in the first place.

“You like music, right? You like it when people sing? I don’t really know many songs. I wish I knew some Ishvalan songs to sing you. Roy probably does. He lived in Ishval for a couple years you know. Maybe I can get him to speak a bit of it to you. He’s not fluent, but that’s okay. You’re a baby. You don’t need to know all of the complex vocabulary you need for things like fixing generators or performing neurosurgery. But Roy’s not here yet, so would you like to hear a Xerxian song in the meantime?”

He decides to interpret her confused, wide-eyed stare as a yes.

“Yeah, of course you do. Let’s see… I only know one lullaby, but it’s not really a lullaby. It’s actually really, really depressing. It’s this song that parents used to sing to their daughters when they died as babies.”

His voice chokes, suddenly hesitant to continue that train of thought. Not for her sake of course, she can’t understand a word he’s saying, but for his own mental wellbeing he probably shouldn’t be treading into such dark territory.

“You see, Xerxes was very medically advanced. They knew much more about human bodies than Amestrians did back then. But it was still a long, long time ago, and about a third of all children died before they turned five. So this is a song that parents would sing to their dead baby girls at their funerals because they thought that singing would help in the mourning process.”

His voice is starting to crack and there are tears welling in his eyes. It’s so weird. When he read this information in a book from the library he glossed over it with barely a stir of emotion. But now that he’s cradling an actual newborn, he can’t help but empathize with the tragic legacy of people who must have sung this song to their children.

And not just any people; his actual ancestors, not even that far removed. If his father really was born a slave, then there must be lots of infant deaths in his family tree. His aunts, uncles, cousins, who knows?

Fuck, how are parents supposed to get anything done when these little energy pods make you fly through the entire range of human emotion on a second by second basis?

“Okay, here it is.” He clears his aching throat and sniffs up the snot in his nose.

_“Nata alma… ini perpetua pausa... Infans mitis… abi carnalibus sensis… Nata beata… dormi sub mea anima…”_

He’s full on crying by the time he makes it to the third line. She can clearly discern the distress in his voice, as her previously curious features contort with displeasure and she begins letting out discontent sobs.

“Aw, I’m sorry, I made you upset. It’s kind of a stressful time for me. And you are making me illogically emotional.”

He pulls her crying form up against his chest, bouncing her a bit, planting a kiss to her head.

“Do you want me to rock you in your crib? That’ll probably calm you down, right?”

He stands up and carries her over to the small, wooden crib by the far wall. When he initially saw it, he wondered if it used to be Roy’s, but upon close inspection, it seems to be brand new.

He gently lays her inside, making sure to support her head like a delicate glass ball.

“Shh… calm down.” He begins rocking the crib steadily, continuing to shush her, growing increasingly anxious as she obstinately refuses to settle down.

“Okay, I’m going to put on some music. I know you like to listen to people sing, even if it’s not me.”

He quickly darts over to the record player and skims through the records that Chris left out for him. He doesn’t recognize any of the titles, so he picks one out at random and slips it onto the tray. As soon as he places the needle on the spinning disk, her cries begin to taper out.

He returns to find her staring raptly at the record player through the bars of her crib; like her little brain is burning massive amounts of fuel trying to figure out how a whole person could fit inside such a contraption. It’s an opera aria. He listens as the voice of the solo artist dips and arches to inhuman pitches, projecting to a crescendo and then pulling back into a tremble.

Eventually Trysta’s cries fizzle out completely as he steadily rocks her. Her eyes droop shut, then snap open again, slowly lower, then finally settle into sleep. He continues pushing the crib lightly, afraid that she’ll wake up if he stops. Watching her move back and forth is starting to make him nauseous though, but there’s no other source of entertainment in his immediate proximity besides the soprano on the record.

Thankfully, his ear catches the sound of keys rattling by the door.

Roy walks in a moment later, but he immediately pauses in the entryway with a quizzical look on his face.

“Why are you listening to opera in the dark?”

Ed glances around and realizes that the sun has set. His eyes just adjusted to the point where he hardly noticed.

“Just forgot to turn the lights on,” he whispers across the room.

Roy reaches to the side to flick on the light by the entryway, causing Ed to shudder and gasp. He looks down, certain that she’s going to wake up, but thankfully she remains completely still, seemingly undisturbed by the sudden change.

“Is this Trysta?” Roy asks as he walks up by his side and leans over the crib.

“Yeah. Isn’t she cute? Like not just how you’re supposed to say that all babies are cute even though most of them are pretty funny looking. Like she’s actually cute. She’s got the puffy cheeks and everything.”

Roy gives a small laugh. “Yeah, she is. I didn’t know she was Ishvalan.”

“Yeah, half apparently. Chris thinks that might be the reason why her mom walked out on her.”

“Well, that’s morbidly depressing.”

“Yeah,” Ed laughs, hoping that the signs of crying on his face have cleared by now.

“How long has she been asleep?” Roy asks.

“Um, maybe ten minutes.”

“You know you don’t have to keep rocking her throughout her entire nap, right?”

“Oh yeah, what do you know?”

“I know that tired newborns can sleep through earthquakes. Come on, stop rocking her and you’ll see.”

Ed reluctantly begins to slow his movements, transitioning into small pushes, then he stops entirely. Sure enough, she remains immobile and doesn’t even let out a squeak in protest. He’d hoped that she would fuss a little bit, just to deprive Roy of the satisfaction.

“There,” Roy says smugly before leaning down to plant a kiss on the top of his head, which eases his bitterness slightly.

“Are you getting settled in okay?”

“Yeah, I guess. Even though it kind of feels like we’re locking ourselves in a fallout shelter.”

“I know. I got permission to take the next three days off on vacation leave, then I’ll go back in on Friday to assess the damage.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

It may be unspoken, but there’s an implicit understanding that Roy may not have a job to return to by Friday.

“I got the final draft of the article if you’d like to read it,” Roy says, patting the briefcase at his side.

Ed shakes his head. “No, I’m good. I really just don’t want to think about it right now. Can we make dinner? Chris stocked the fridge with all sorts of good stuff. I think she’s spoiling us.”

Roy smiles. “Well, despite the unideal circumstances, she is immensely glad to have us here. The girls have been rotating shifts every night to look after the baby, and it’s been costing them all. I think feeding us is the least she can do in exchange for the free childcare.”

“Glad to know I’m appreciated.”

 

Twelve more hours until the newspapers hit the streets. Glancing out at the city lights, some juvenile fragment of his psyche desperately wants to go outside and spend the night cycling through bars, mingling with strangers, and participating in all the debaucherous things young people are supposed to experience. Things that will be permanently inaccessible to him come tomorrow. 

Twenty years old. And he feels like a weary parent reflecting on their wasted youth.

Still, at least this is happening on their own terms. They’re not going to be exposed by a third party spectator. There’s a measure of control still in their grasp. He supposes that’s as much of a victory as they could have hoped for.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [twitter](https://twitter.com/blissymbolics1)


	9. A Good Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So in one line in No Promises I wrote that homosexuality was illegal in Amestris up until fairly recently. I’ve decided to retcon that for Lore purposes. It was never illegal in Amestris. There is no war in Ba Sing Se.  
> It really didn’t impact anything else in the story though, so nothing except that one line had to be changed.

On Tuesday morning, February 5th 1920, their names and faces grace the front page of the Central Times:

 

_Brigadier General Roy Mustang and Former State Alchemist Edward Elric Announce Their Relationship_

 

The headline feels wrong. It seems frivolous. Lowbrow. Like the kind of article you would expect to find plastered in comically bold type across the cover of a tabloid magazine, not the most prestigious newspaper in the country.

As the day of reckoning drew closer, Roy almost found himself wishing that some catastrophe would befall the country. Some tragic event that would push their story a few pages back, bury it beneath several folds; but they had no such luck. In fact, the news seemed to fall into a stagnant lull as the day approached, like the whole country was stuck in a bored daze, just waiting for them to break the silence.

For the next three days he and Ed remain blissfully ignorant to the happenings beyond Chris’ apartment. Time, daylight, and nightfall lose all meaning as their circadian cycles adapt to the cries of the baby. Like planets orbiting a star, their lives become a simple rhythm of feeding, changing, bathing, sleeping according to her schedule and watching the sun rise and fall with the surreal sense of being suspended in a glass jar.

And to his surprise, Ed seems perfectly within his element.

Roy was rightfully worried that this whole ordeal would trigger another relapse, but to his relief, Ed has been dutifully taking his medication and redirecting all of his attention to the little girl who seems to grow more alert by the hour.

To be honest, she’s the main reason why Roy even proposed staying at Chris’ place, as opposed to just leaving town entirely. He’d hoped that throwing a cute baby in Ed’s direction would be a decent distraction technique, but he never expected his plan to unfold so seamlessly.

It’s almost entrancing to watch Ed interact with her. The way he seems to effortlessly pick up her quirks and read her moods. How he carries her around as if she were an extra limb. The way he climbs out of bed in the middle of the night to comfort her, usually before Roy can even register being conscious. And the way he files down her fingernails with all the concentration of cutting a diamond.

_She likes to rub at her face when she’s upset. But then she’ll scratch herself, which just makes her even more upset. Then she’ll look at me like it’s all my fault!_

It’s no secret that Ed is happiest when he can structure his life around the needs of others. An unfortunate side effect is that he often reserves too little care and concern for himself. But given the circumstances, Roy’s not going to deter him from finding what little comfort he can in caring for a baby that can only ever be a temporary repository for his affection.

Riza stops by every evening to bring them a couple pieces of mail that she already opened. Just a handful of bills and notices that seem so deceiving in their normality. She says there’s more mail waiting for them: a small pile at this point. She’s inspected all of it, but he steadfastly refuses to hear what it contains.

Apparently there were a couple reporters loitering outside of their house on Tuesday, but they cleared out before nightfall and haven’t been back since. There’s been no other form of vandalism or disturbance, and none of their mail thus far has contained any harmful substances or death threats, which he finds genuinely surprising.

During each visit she offers to give him a more comprehensive report on the public response, but he staunchly refuses.

Instead, he simply asks the same three questions:

Is their house safe?

Is their location secure?

And does he still have a job?

She answers yes to all three, and that’s as much as he needs and wants to know.

On Thursday – his last day of quietude before confronting the mess that awaits him – he and Ed bundle Trysta up in her warmest attire and climb the maintenance staircase up onto the roof: an empty flat plane that ranks among the tallest buildings in Central.

Standing there together, the biting wind spiraling past their ears, the dull grey sky enveloping the city in a boundless shadow, they look, and breathe, overcome with a sense of being stranded on an empty island despite the millions of souls sharing the same air.

And in that moment, Roy realizes that he’s happy.

He’s happy dwelling in this precious bubble they’ve constructed for themselves. He’s happy divorcing himself from the citizens he still technically serves. He’s happy. He’s content.

He chose Ed, a decision that can never be reversed. And looking at him now – full of smiles as he rotates in a circle so the baby can see the full landscape – he doesn’t regret it.

_Let’s get in the car now. Drive to Risembool. Rebuild our lives from scratch. Make something new together. Something decadent, self-indulgent, and completely ours. A life where we don’t have to care about anything but ourselves._

He can’t say that though, no matter how much he wants to.

Because tragically, Ed can never be the sole focus of his world. He has debts, responsibilities, more than three decades worth of existence that he can’t simply discard for the sake of chasing paradise.

So the next morning he shaves, combs his hair, and smoothes out the wrinkles in his cold uniform. It vaguely feels like he’s dressing himself for his funeral, considering that he may never wear these clothes again. And to make the scene complete, Ed kisses him before he leaves, long and sad, as if this really were their last goodbye.

Riza is waiting for him in the car outside. She gives him a polite greeting, as if this were any other morning, then they begin to wind their way through the early morning traffic.

“Would you like a full report now?” she asks as they draw closer to the towering facade of Central Command.

“Not yet,” he replies. He’s genuinely afraid that if he hears the truth now, then he won’t have the courage to step out of the car.

In his daydreams, he wondered if returning to headquarters would feel like going back in time to the halls of his old school. If he would find his colleagues transformed into reflections of adolescent rage, assaulting him with unrepentant mockery and violent contempt. Maybe they’d spit at his feet, grab him by the coat, scream into his face, expunge the depths of their psyches and grind him into the floor like dirt.

But the reality is far more unsettling.

Because there’s nothing.

The halls are quiet, the people stoic, conversations die as he walks past and the carpet seems to extend on indefinitely.

Normally his coworkers would greet him in the morning. Just a pleasant wave or courtesy nod, some informal acknowledgement of his presence. But the river of blue uniforms passes him by like a silent wave.

Everyone uniformly shoots him a quick look as he passes, but it’s generally a look of surprise rather than disdain. Given his three-day absence, most people probably expected him to never return. His eyes feverishly flit across their expressions, afraid to linger too long in case they meet his gaze. He swears there are hints of disgust etched into their aloof expressions. There must be. Why else would they be ignoring him this way?

Thankfully, they manage to reach his office without incident. He shuts the doors maybe a bit too quickly and turns the lock on instinct. Only then does he realize that he's terrified at the thought of leaving this room.

“Where’s Claudia?” he asks, having noticed that her desk was empty.

“She didn’t arrive for work on Wednesday. And she hasn’t been in touch since.”

He’s not even sure why he bothered asking.

He slumps down onto the couch and Riza takes a seat beside him without instruction. She raises a hand to his shoulder, rubbing across the fabric that he’s worn nearly every day for almost half his life.

The cold mask of apathy she wore in the hall has receded, filling her face with a warmth that very few know exist.

“Would you like a full report now?” she asks.

“Yes.”

“Would you like me to be brutally honest?”

“If you would be so kind.”

A crease of a smile crests her lips.

He focuses on the warmth of her hand. The sound of the heat creaking through the walls. No matter what happens next, he’ll still have her. And he’ll have Ed. His life will still have purpose. His family still loves him.

“The public response has been uniformly negative. Attitudes within the military have been particularly hostile. While there are many throughout the country who still support you, they’re too afraid to speak out in your favor. There are also plenty of citizens who are indifferent and find the whole public spectacle distasteful.”

Sharp splinters pierce his brain. His vision floats as a cold sweat blankets his body, even though these are just the opening assurances to sweeten the poison.

She gives his shoulder a firm squeeze before continuing. “But the general consensus is that your relationship is fundamentally inappropriate, and most of the outrage is being directed towards you. The predominant theory seems to be that Edward’s difficult childhood compelled him to gravitate towards you: someone older and familiar who was in a position to protect him.”

Her voice tears open a gash in his abdomen. This is far more visceral than his nightmares. And the worst part is, he can’t exactly call the public psychoanalysis of their dynamic inaccurate.

“For the most part, people believe what you said in the article: that Edward was the one who initiated the relationship. But they feel it was irresponsible and manipulative of you to reciprocate his advances.

She takes a breath. “Then of course there are those who believe that you actively targeted him. That you recruited him to the military in the interest of abusing him, and he felt compelled to stay with you after years of conditioning. I think you’ll have a difficult time trying to persuade them from that conviction.”

He tastes acid in his mouth. Nausea. His skin is melting and slinking off his bones.

Why did he even bother coming back here? This was a mistake. He’s trapped here now. How can he leave the safety of this room ever again?

It feels like he’s sitting in a hospital, listening to a doctor calmly inform him that a loved one has passed away. He’s trapped in a morgue. His career is dead, beyond resuscitation. He’s a ghost haunting the halls that want nothing more to do with him.

Why is he in a state of shock even though nothing she has said so far is surprising? In fact, it’s almost eerie how accurately he predicted the sequence of events that would follow the announcement. Note by note, he knew everything. He knew that the animosity would be directed towards him. He knew there would be accusations of pedophilia. And he knew that there was no possible scenario in which his career survived the fallout.

He knew everything. They all did. But now that they’re on the other side of it, he can’t even cling to that gambler’s hope.

At least it’s over. This was the hardest part. It has to get better from here.

It has to.

Riza lets out a sigh and moves her hand to start rubbing across his back. He can tell that she’s been rehearsing this. Probably for days.

“If it’s any consolation,” she says with an artificial note of optimism, “I believe that most people are using arguments of Edward’s age and background to mask their own personal biases. While some have had no issue in condemning your relationship based solely on gender, most have been fabricating ethical justifications to hide the fact that they find all same sex relationships unsettling.”

That is mildly reassuring. In the twisted sense that this would have happened regardless of what man he chose.

“What about the team? Have you spoken with any of them?”

It’s endearing that he still refers to them as a team despite the fact that they’ve been scattered across disparate departments for over a year.

“No. Granted, I haven’t tried contacting any of them. But for the moment, they seem to be avoiding me.”

Another sharp gash across his chest.

“What about our allies? Have any of them made contact? Armstrong, Miles, Ross, any of them?” he asks, making no attempt to conceal the desperation in his voice.

“No, sir. But I wouldn’t jump to conclusions too quickly. They may be avoiding us simply because they don’t want to get tangled up in the scandal.”

The scandal. So that’s what this is. Their domestic life of monogamous mundanities has been reduced to a scandal, a shameful and illicit affair.

Again, he anticipated that as well.

Heaving a sigh, he reclines against the back of the couch, staring up at the ceiling fan and following the slow rotations of its wings.

It’s truly over then. Sixteen years of his life washed down the drain. All those sleepless nights, guilty compromises, and coin toss sacrifices have been reduced to wasted time.

It almost feels as if all his friends died within a single night. Some noxious gas quietly removed them from this plane. All those people, individuals who he can recognize by laugh and shout, are suddenly no longer a part of his life. Friendships a decade old wiped clean like white paint being splashed over a mural.

No, the situation can’t be that dire. Surely not all of them detest him. It’s only been three days. Perhaps the revelations are simply too awkward for them to swallow. Maybe the mental flashes of him and Edward touching tongues while tangled up inside each other are just too much for them to handle. But that instinctive revulsion should abet with time, hopefully.

But still, even if they can find it within themselves to maintain a personal friendship, will any of them stand beside him when it really matters? He had hundreds of allies at his back during the Promised Day who trusted him as their leader and prospective ruler. But now, will any of them defend the legislation he puts forward? Will they support his policy reform, his public initiatives, his quest for the Führership? Will a single person put their career and reputation on the line to follow him with the same loyalty they would have displayed before the article was published?

Maybe. Maybe one day. Maybe five, ten years from now he can start to rebuild. Maybe he can pick up the pieces and still make something of himself.

“What about Eckert? Have you spoken with him?” he asks, his desperation growing sharp.

“Yes, I met with him yesterday. He said that he’s still willing to offer you a job, but it would have to be a low-ranking position. Something nominal outside of his immediate circle of influence. He said you would understand.”

Roy continues tracing the wings of the ceiling fan, round and round. He never realized how deep vanity has corrupted him, as the thought to being demoted to a position of menial desk work feels like a fate worse than unemployment. He cringes at the thought of returning to this same building everyday. Walking through these same halls, everyone recognizing his face, knowing what he used to be and how far he’s fallen.

Is it even worth it? Wouldn’t it be easier to sever his life at this juncture? Start over again, move to the countryside with Ed. They both have plenty of miscellaneous skills to cobble together a living, and he has enough in his savings to comfortably support them for several years as they get settled.

It’ll be terrifying, but what other choice do they have?

There’s nothing they could have done differently to soften the blow. The article they put out was as innocuous as a bridge building announcement. There are no adjectives or adverbs they could have swapped out to make their relationship more palatable to sixty million people.

Sixty million people. In exchange for Edward.

He’s never believed in equivalent exchange the same way Ed does. He doesn’t hold it as gospel, he doesn’t dwell on it like a hermit contemplating the nature of God. Yet now he finds himself wondering: was this a fair exchange? Ed in exchange for everything. His career, his future, virtually everyone he knows, all of it wiped clean within a single night like the destruction of Xerxes. All for the privilege of calling that twenty-year-old boy with the golden eyes his own.

He has to stop himself from second guessing. Cut off contemplation with the same urgency that he uses to shut down reflections on Ishval. It’s dangerous to get lost in the past. To wonder how different things could have been. What his present reality might look like if Edward never contacted him. Never confessed, never pitched him into the crisis that rerouted the course of his carefully constructed future. He could have remained ignorant to another man’s taste, carried on with his life, unfulfilled in love but at least satisfied with the good work he was putting back into the world.

If Ed never reentered his life, then it’s highly likely that he would be Führer right now, making good on every promise he made on the fields of Ishval.

Now he’ll never repay his debt. Even if he continues working in some capacity, it’ll be mere cenz in comparison to the monstrous sum he owes. How could he forget that his life was effectively forfeit the first time he snapped his fingers and incinerated that screaming soldier? It was unforgivably selfish to put his debt at risk in the interest of satisfying his own desires. It was weak. Worthless. He sunk his teeth into a plump, overripe piece of fruit and now he’ll be damned to a hell he doesn’t believe in because he deserved to eat nothing but bitter roots for the rest of his life.

Maybe this is equivalent exchange. Maybe he deserves to die buried beneath the oppressive weight of his guilt, stripped of the medicine that could help alleviate it.

Somehow, his legs manage to lift him to his feet. He wanders over to his desk, that gaudy block of furniture that always smelt too strong of linseed oil. The surface sharply tilts to the right, and he reaches out a hand to steady himself. His inbox is empty. A sure sign that the end is near.

“I took care of your correspondences while you were away,” Riza says when she notices him staring. “Although most of the mail that would normally go to you has been coming to my desk recently.”

Roy just nods, unsure of what he ought to say.

It’s only a quarter past nine, but there’s nothing for him to do. His schedule is completely empty. There are no calls, no meetings, no missions; he’s effectively collecting a day of pay to sit here and anxiously wait for his job to be dissolved out from under him.

For his own safety, he has to regard everyone outside of this room as his enemy. He has to keep his cards firmly clutched against his chest. Everyone except for Riza, even the people he would call his friends, all of them have to be kept at arm’s length until they can prove their loyalty, if it still exists. He effectively has no allies, no contacts, his carefully cultivated network is a barren wasteland.

But why?

He knows the reason, but at the same time he doesn’t.

Does the average Amestrian truly believe that his love for Edward merits complete ostracization? That everything he’s accomplished so far should be rendered null and void? He came from nothing, and now he’s been reduced to nothing, all for a fabricated scandal that doesn’t violate a single law or harm a single person.

He can understand the vitriol among certain populations. Insecure men who lash out at anything that threatens their masculinity. Adherents to the cult of science who perceive it as a biological defect since it has no evolutionary purpose. But again, is that really enough to justify destroying his life?

He can’t deny that he fell in line. From an early age he decided to never date men because he knew it would damage his standing in society. But upon reflection, he never questioned why. It was just an intuitive fact. Xing is to the east, Creta to the west, and loving someone of the same gender will ruin you.

But there must be some objective reason. Some historical event or philosophical movement that explains the country’s current mindset. Something that slipped past his radar as he was growing up among those who left society behind. Something that everyone knows except for him.

Was it just a holdover from Amestris’ distant religious past? Like a vestigial organ still clinging to the population's DNA. Or is there a more sinister reason? Was homosexuality explicitly suppressed by Father and the homunculi in order to propagate more children to fill their transmutation circle? Did they subliminally condemn it in order to corral people into nuclear families would keep society orderly and easy to monitor?

There must be some reason. Some justification. Some signal buried beneath the noise.

-

It’s a mystery how he manages to survive until the clock hits five. Cooped up in the office that will soon belong to someone else.

Riza remains by his side as they trace their steps back down the same route, the short journey reminiscent of traversing through the underworld. He swears he can hear whispers of everyone’s passing thoughts; like listening to voices while submerged underwater. The entire building seems to pulse with a magnetic current, an unseen force pushing him from the premises.

Even until the last step, he prays for some measure of assurance. A single look, a word, just one person willing to look him in the eye and silently communicate that he still belongs here. He walks, and waits, but there’s nothing. Not a single soul gives any indication that his presence is welcome in these halls.

They sit together in the car with the engine running, waiting for a gap in the line of cars trying to escape the cramped parking lot.

“Captain, I feel like there’s a gap in my education,” he says with a tone of amusement, as if he were out of the loop on some inside joke circulating the office. “I feel like there’s some secret that everyone in the country knows except for me. You grew up in the real world. Can you enlighten me to the reason why the entire country now detests me?”

She finally manages to pull them out of their parking space, falling in line with the row of cars wheeling towards the main gate.

“There’s no secret, sir. You didn’t miss anything. If you’re looking for a logical explanation, I’m afraid there is none, and I doubt most people could provide you with one if you asked. I wish I could give a more satisfying answer than simply citing societal norms and social conformity, but that’s truly all it is.”

Roy stares out the windshield, both relieved and disappointed that there's no glaring answer that escaped his periphery. But can it really be that simple? Can prejudice be justified on such baseless grounds?

Of course it can. Why did he ever try to convince himself otherwise?

“But those things are liable to change,” he says as they’re exiting the gate and turning onto the street.

“Yes, they can change. They are changing. And I know it doesn’t feel this way, but they don’t hate you. They’re uncomfortable with things that are out of the ordinary, but that’s not the same as hate.”

“So the only solution is to wait?”

She sighs. “Wait, but don’t waste your time waiting. I wish I could offer better advice.”

“Brigadier General Mustang!”

Both of their heads snap to the left as they see a young soldier dashing towards the driver’s side of the car. He’s panting heavily, waving a hand to catch their attention. Riza cautiously lowers her window a crack as he approaches.

“General, I’m glad I caught you. Lieutenant Colonel Roce sent me. He needs you for a mission. He says it’s urgent.”

Roy’s expression furrows in confusion. He skims through his mental rolodex, searching for that name.

“Lieutenant Colonel Roce… in the drug department?” he asks with uncertainty. What on earth could the drug department possibly need him for?

“Yes,” the young man replies just as the car behind them honks impatiently. “I’m sorry it’s so late, but it really is important.”

A flurry of honks flare up on the road behind them. Roy looks at Riza, silently asking for advice, but she seems just as lost as he is.

He tries to envision what type of drug-related mission might require his specific abilities, but he comes up empty. Whatever it is, they must be desperate if they’re willing to bring him out into the field in spite of the controversy surrounding his name.

It has to be a trick. It has to be.

The drivers behind them continue assaulting their horns. The young man is waiting on edge, nervously glancing at his watch.

Riza shoots him a look, all but ordering him to stay in the car. Her suspicions are probably on par with his own.

Her expression darkens as he reaches to unbuckle his seatbelt, but she doesn't protest when he dutifully steps out of the car.

 

* * *

 

Fifteen minutes later, Roy finds himself sitting at a long table in a small room packed with a dozen people who he’s never met before. Throughout his time in the military, he’s made a concentrated effort to dip his toes in as many sectors of the government as possible, but he can honestly say that drug enforcement has remained firmly in his blindspot.

The department itself is relatively small, and he’s never had any reason to interact with its members beyond routine socializing. He knows a couple names, but few of their corresponding faces.

The man sitting across from him must be Lieutenant Colonel Roce. A dark-skinned man with sharp glasses and a piercing gaze. Roy recognizes the man sitting next to him as Major Neumeister, a plump and pale man with sagging cheeks that pull his mouth into a wrinkled frown.

Roy knows that the two of them jointly run the department, but that’s really the extent of his knowledge.

Finally, Roce calls everyone to attention. Roy straightens his back, trying to ignore the wandering eyes floating in his direction.

“Thank you for coming on such short notice, General. I apologize for the inconvenience,” Roce says, his tone direct and firm, which makes it difficult to tell if he actually means it.

“It’s no trouble. How can I be of service?” he asks with his default self-assured tone that now rings so hollow it’s embarrassing.

“You’ve heard about the rising rate of drug crimes in Central, I presume?” Roce asks bluntly while opening a manila folder laying on the table.

Roy searches his memory. He vaguely recalls reading an article last week about several individuals who were arrested for trafficking opium from Xing, but it all seemed fairly standard. As far as he knows, the drug situation in Central isn’t any worse than it usually is.

“I’ve read about it in the papers, yes,” he replies, trying to keep his mask in place.

“Well, we’ve managed to identify one of the city’s main suppliers. A group of five men who are using this property as their storehouse.” Roce rotates the open folder in Roy's direction to show him a photograph of a dilapidated two-story house. It was probably white at some point, but the layers of grime clinging to the shingles have turned it a splotchy grey.

“They’ve been squatting here for the past three months,” he continues. “We’re planning on staging a raid tonight. Time is somewhat of the essence, as they’re planning on driving a shipment up north tonight, and we’d like to keep the situation contained.”

Roy glances at Roce, then the house in the picture, then the dozen other soldiers sitting around the table, all fully armed and equipped head to toe in combat gear.

This is bizarre. They don’t appear to be lacking ample reinforcements for raiding a condemned house that only contains five men.

“I’d be happy to help, but what exactly would my role be?” he asks.

“We’d like you to help us smoke them out. Quite literally. The house has a large wooden porch,” he says while tracing his finger across the deck that extends across the entire front of the house. “We’d like you to set it on fire, but keep it contained enough that they won’t suspect coordinated arson. They’ll flee out the backdoor where we’ll be waiting for them in hiding. Once they’re all outside, we cuff them, you snuff the flames, and we all go home happy.”

Roy feels like an absolute idiot for stepping out of the car.

This has to be a trap. His experience with drug enforcement is woefully limited, but he’s smart enough to know that this convoluted mess of a plan falls far outside of the playbook.

“Pardon me, sir, I have no experience with drug raids, but this plan seems highly unorthodox.”

“It is. Normally we’d burst in, guns at the ready, but we know for a fact that they’re heavily armed. We figure this strategy will minimize the risk of bloodshed, for us and them.”

Roy pauses a moment to reflect on that line of logic. He supposes forcing them to evacuate would streamline their arrest and curtail a potential shootout. But still, surely they’ve dealt with similar situations. There must be protocols in place. Why does this mission merit tossing out the rulebook?

“Still, even if I snuff the flames after they leave, there’s always a chance that evidence will be destroyed in the interim.”

“That’s why we want you to keep the size of the fire manageable. Large enough that they can’t douse it, but small enough that it won’t reach the house’s interior.”

His commonsense is tearing this situation to shreds. All of his instincts are telling him to get out now. They probably planted something beneath the porch. A gas tank or some grade of explosives. When the house is leveled they can accuse him of negligence, all the better if he kills the people inside.

The drug department kills people during raids as a matter of routine. He’s under no delusion that they actually care about preserving the lives of the men in this house, if they exist at all.

“Just a word of caution,” he says slowly, “I can neutralize the oxygen in the air to snuff the flames, but if a spark hits a gas main, I can’t neutralize an explosion.”

“We considered that, but the house is almost a hundred years old; it doesn’t even have a gas main. And the neighboring houses are all abandoned, so you don’t have to worry on that front either.”

That increases his worry exponentially. They’re talking about driving him out to a condemned neighborhood on the outskirts of the city, far removed from any potential witnesses.

This is a trap. It’s so obvious it stings.

“I apologize for asking so many questions, but can I ask why you’re straying so far from standard protocol?”

If Roce doesn’t provide him with an incredibly convincing answer, he’ll leave. He outranks everyone in this room. He’s under no obligation to cooperate. If someone dies as a result, then so be it. That’s a component of their job. It’s a risk they would assume for any other mission. Instead they’re asking him to shirk all precedent to carry out a highly volatile plan that falls squarely on his shoulders. If a superior officer writes him up for refusing their request, fine. He’ll take the demerit over potentially walking into a trap that might land him in prison, or worse.

The table remains quiet. He skims his eyes up and down its length, but everyone’s gaze is firmly fixed on the grain of the wood. Even Roce looks coy. He fidgets a bit, then turns his head to Neumeister, who hasn’t said a word throughout the entire meeting.

Finally, the portly man raises his eyes, which look positively glassy in the reflected light.

“General, one of the men in that house is my son. While it breaks my heart that this has to happen, I would still very much like to bring him home someday.”

Roy is not one to be easily manipulated. He’s managed to spare himself pain on multiple occasions by placing reason over pathos.

But he’s not cruel. A feature that might benefit him in this very moment.

He doesn’t doubt that Neumeister is telling the truth. He doesn’t know the man personally, but he’s heard through general gossip that his son is an addict who went missing last October. To make matters worse, his daughter – and only other child – disappeared as a teenager and has been presumed dead for years.

Just for confirmation, he flips through the folder until he finds a list containing the suspects' names, and sure enough, right in the middle: Jacob Neumeistier.

Roy can visualize with vivid accuracy all the ways this plan could backfire. But if he can marginally raise the odds that Neumeister can still call himself a father at the end of the night, then it has to be worth it. Right?

He sighs and glances down at the picture of the house, already envisioning how easy it would be to light a spark beneath the hollow planks. How simple and unassuming he could make it seem. Just let the fire eat away at the rotting floorboards, but don’t let it spread too high. Based on the architecture, it doesn’t look like there are any rooms above the porch. Just the slope of the roof.

Are there better alternatives to this plan? Absolutely. But given the time constraints… He can already see people in the room anxiously looking at the clock.

It suddenly occurs to him that this is exactly the type of scenario for which he always dreamt of using his flame alchemy. A chance to prove that it's not just a tool for convenient slaughter. It's a power that can be used to help people, to save lives, to counteract the brutal entropy of nature.

“I understand,” he says firmly.

It feels like he’s twenty again. Taking the state alchemist exam. Idealistic and naive, clamoring for approval.

He really should know better by now.

 

* * *

 

The house is buried in a graveyard of condemned properties. The near identical structures were too far gone to merit the investment of installing modern heat and electricity, and the nearby rubber factory made the property value of the land worthless. The neighborhood was still standing only because no one could justify allocating the funds for demolition.

The soldiers around him fall into their established roles with practiced ease. Two of them accompany him inside a crumbling house positioned directly across from their target on the opposite side of the street. He crouches down to peer through a shattered window, and after five minutes of waiting, the plan goes into play.

He snaps his fingers. His eyes follow the line of energy as it snakes through the air and makes contact with the base of the porch. The flame starts small, no larger than a stovetop burner. Hopefully the inhabitants will be too panicked to realize that there’s virtually no logical way that a fire could ignite from this location.

A second snap, hitting the steps leading down to the overgrown yard. A third, right in front of the door. The flames are the size of a small bonfire now, but it seems like no one inside has noticed yet.

He holds off, waiting, watching the flames curl around the rotting wood and licking their way across the deck. He gives a snap to redirect the oxygen when he sees some flames starting to creep up the wall. With expert precision, he keeps snapping, until finally he sees a figure pull open the front door, give a shout, and slam it shut again.

It worked. Now he just has to wait. As per his instructions, he keeps the fire contained, but his fear starts pulsing as the minutes drag on. The deck is already starting to cave in on itself. How long has it been? Five minutes? Ten? No, it can’t be that long. His eyes dart to the side of the house. Someone is supposed to run out and wave a flashlight in the air as his signal to snuff the flames.

He waits. And waits. The boards of the deck collapse, and still he waits.

Finally, he sees a figure waving a beam of light across the smoke-filled sky. In an instant he sends out one last snap that smothers the fire into a cloud of smoke, plunging the landscape into darkness.

Before he can enjoy a second of relief, he sees the soldier with the flashlight running in his direction.

Something must have gone wrong. Of course it did.

The two men by his side quickly follow him as he exits out the front door to meet the sprinting woman.

“We’ve detained four of them, but Major Neumeister’s son is still inside,” she shouts.

Roy’s chest caves in. Not out of concern for the man, but visceral hatred for his own stupidity.

He immediately starts dashing towards the house. Plunging into the blanket of smoke that drips down into his lungs. Without hesitation he jumps across the blackened rubble and climbs through the unlocked door.

“His roommates said he might be upstairs in the crawlspace,” the woman right behind him shouts as she follows him up the stairs.

The crawlspace. He prays that’s not where he suspects it is.

Scanning the upstairs landing, he sees several blue uniforms gathered in the exact room he feared. The one right above the porch.

Sure enough, amidst the choking smoke he can see them huddled around a small, square door in the wall, which must lead to the crawlspace right beneath the slope of the roof. The area right above the flames. That small, uninsulated triangle of space that kids always like to hide in and call it a secret fort.

A soldier is in the process of dragging an unconscious man through the small door; his elbows hooked under his armpits, coughing loudly amidst the scorching smoke.

Roy dashes over to the nearest window and tries to pry it open, but the wood is swollen and won’t budge. Turning his back, he slams his elbow against the already cracked glass and snaps his fingers to create an air current that carries the toxic soot outside. He keeps snapping until the air is nearly clear, all the while watching the man on the floor perform CPR on the prone body of Neumeister’s son.

They all watch, and wait. Minutes go by. Still no response.

There isn’t going to be a response.

Finally, the soldier surrenders his futile task. He leans away, casting his eyes aside in defeat.

The five of them just stare at the body that they still can’t call a corpse. In the silence they all wait, still hoping that his eyes will snap open and he’ll gasp in a lungful of air.

Roy wants to run. Disappear. Take Ed and leave the city tonight.

There’s truly nothing left for him now. It’s over. Whatever life he still had here is now as dead as the man on the floor.

“Where’s the Major?” he asks, breaking the tense silence.

“Still outside,” the woman at his side responds.

“He has fresh track marks. He may have already been dead before the fire started,” the man above the body pants, pointing towards the red and bruised veins exposed beneath his rolled up sleeve.

“No, he was alive,” Roy says matter-of-factly. His complexion is still too fresh. His limbs loose and flaccid. “It wasn’t long enough to die from carbon monoxide poisoning, but the particles in the smoke probably inflamed his airway and obstructed his breathing.”

Silence engulfs the room again. In a way, it reminds Roy of Ishval. Back when so many comrades fell within a single day that your quota of grief was depleted by early morning, and all you could do was awkwardly stand in a parody of a funeral and dwell on your own mortality.

“I’ll tell him,” the woman at his side interjects.

“No, I’ll do it,” Roy responds. It’s his responsibility. Or maybe it isn’t. Either way, he’s the highest ranked among them. The higher you ascend the ladder, the heavier your duty to the dead becomes.

He walks towards the door, desperate to escape the sight on the floor.

“You’re a good man, sir.”

He stops, and turns to the soldier still crouching above the body. He’s young, possibly younger than the man at his feet. His gaze remains steady as he speaks.

“I just thought you might want to hear that.”

Roy really is a monster. Because despite the fact that he just inadvertently killed a man, that simple declaration makes him happier than he’s felt all day.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried my best to describe how I envisioned the crawlspace, but it's definitely a bit confusing, so here are some [examples](http://blissymbolics.tumblr.com/post/183328862386/for-a-thing-ignore-me)
> 
> So I know that for a Royed story this fic is kinda lacking in, well, Royed scenes. But don’t worry, from this point on it'll be a lot more focused on them interacting one on one.
> 
> my [ twitter](https://twitter.com/blissymbolics1) is a good time I promise


	10. Equivalent Exchange

All week long Ed waited on edge for news of Roy’s discharge, and felt searing disappointment when it never came.

It was like waiting for a long-suffering relative to finally pass away. Recovery was off the table, the early stages of grief were already setting in, and each day of hospice care was nothing more than a tax in emotional labor.

And it’s frustrating that Roy doesn’t view it the same way.

On Friday morning his restless dreams woke him more than two hours before sunrise. Unable to fall back asleep, he pressed his body flush against Roy’s back and dug his forehead into the nape of his neck, as if he could telepathically impart the gnawing fear gripping every cell in his brain. The nightmarish slideshow of court martial tribunals, public humiliation, and back alley assaults that have replaced his dreams of writhing black hands and faceless gods.

Even with a job to return to, Ed had hoped that maybe this small patch of domesticity would be enough to sway him from his misguided determination. That maybe just this once Roy wouldn’t prioritize his standing in the military over all else.

Of course he feels too guilty to voice these feelings out loud, but Roy must know as well as he does that there’s nothing left. There’s no good news waiting for him. Roy says that returning to work is necessary for proper assessment, but really it’s nothing more than masochism. Returning to headquarters won’t do anymore good than surveying the damage to a ship that has already sunk beneath the water.

Ed understands that he’ll never be enough. That he’ll always come second to Roy’s sense of obligation to Amestris. Roy will never find satisfaction in dedicating himself to the small circle of people who love him. Because if he can’t help everyone, then what’s the point in helping anyone?

Ed hates that these are the thoughts spinning in his head when he says goodbye to Roy that morning. He hates that Roy can probably feel his body shaking with bitterness and budding anger, all contrived from a confusing mess of fear and jealousy.

Fear of what’s waiting for Roy outside their small sanctuary, and jealousy that he even has the mental fortitude to go outside at all.

Of course there’s nothing stopping Ed from going outside. He’s not quarantined or under house arrest. The air in here is pungent with stagnation and his skin is screaming out for sunlight, but going out in public feels comparable to stepping out of a bomb shelter to walk across a minefield.

All morning his thoughts sputter on like an overheated engine. Around noon he finally finds the motivation to dig through the fridge for something to eat even though he doesn’t feel a stir of hunger. Gnawing on a piece of bread, his joints suddenly lock in panic as he realizes that he may be slipping into the early stages of another episode.

He tries to persuade himself that it’s just the sleep deprivation, stress, and claustrophobia catching up with him, but all these rational explanations fall on deaf ears as his mind traps itself in an echo chamber, grasping and dissecting every passing thought.

Even Trysta’s demanding presence isn’t enough to distract him. In fact, she’s only making things worse.

She cries without interruption for over an hour. He doesn’t know how her small lungs can handle such strain. Nothing seems to placate her. There’s nothing he can do but swaddle her tight and hold her against his chest, murmuring nonsense and rocking in his seasick misery.

Each distressed wail breeds a new fear:

_Is this normal? Is her skin hotter than usual? Why isn’t she looking at me; is there something wrong with her vision? Her hearing? Is her stomach bloated, is she spitting up too much, is she sick, is she in pain? How can I help her if I don’t know what’s wrong?_

His dizzy state of jagged worry comes to a crest when he runs his hand across her head and pulls away a large clump of hair between his fingers.

Everything goes still as a dozen conflicting chemical responses flood his brain. He quickly moves to lay her on the carpet as he breathes through the impulse to throw up. He stares at the bundle of fine white hair in his palm as his breaths stagger on the verge of hyperventilation.

This isn’t normal. This isn’t all in his head. It’s real. There’s something wrong with her. He needs to take her to the hospital. He needs to pull himself together. Get the fuck out of this apartment and find someone who can help.

Suddenly he remembers: babies always lose the hair they’re born with. That’s definitely a thing he heard somewhere. Or maybe he read it. Either way, it’s definitely in his memory; a small snippet of information that got buried out of irrelevance.

Or did he just make it up? Is his brain desperately trying to explain away a serious problem to prevent him from falling apart?

Chris is still home, but he doesn’t want to wake her up over such a stupid question. But his thoughts are drowning in mental textbooks full of neonatal diseases.

The Amestrian infant mortality rate is three percent. He’s not sure why he knows that, but he does. Live births face a three percent chance of death within the first year of life. One out of every thirty-three babies will die before they’re old enough to walk. If anxiety has taught him anything, it’s that rationalizing probabilities is fucking useless. It doesn’t matter if the odds are three percent, one percent, a fraction of a thousandth; you’re always the unlucky exception. The statistical anomaly.

Sure, he knows that a large portion of that three percent is due to poverty, abuse, and abandonment, but there’s not a single rational assurance in the world that can soothe his dysfunctional, worthless wreck of a brain.

He should call Winry. She’ll definitely give him a straight answer. He needs to call her anyway since he was a complete asshole and never told her or Granny that they were dropping the article. They don’t even know where he is; if he’s okay. They must be sick with worry, but he hasn’t been able to muster enough guilt or sympathy to pick up the phone.

Keeping his eyes locked on Trysta, he moves to the phone and dials Winry’s number in Rush Valley. It’s early afternoon. She’s probably not even home.

“Hello?” her voice chimes through the receiver, causing him to shudder.

“Hey Win, it’s me.”

“Oh my god, I’ve been trying to reach you all week! Where are you? Are you okay?”

Thankfully she doesn’t sound angry, just concerned.

“Yeah, I’m fine. I haven’t been home lately. Me and Roy are staying at his foster mother’s place. Just until the noise dies down. But hey, quick question, it’s normal for newborns to lose their hair, right?”

Silence.

“I’m sorry, what?” she snaps in confusion.

“Please, just tell me it’s normal.” His voice cracks at the end of the line.

“Um, yeah, it’s normal. Wait is that the reason you called me?”

They talk for the next hour or so. Ed does his best to coherently string together the confusing and destructive thoughts cycling through his head and clings to the validation and assurance she offers. As expected, she tells him to get out of the apartment, get on a decent sleep schedule, maybe go back to Risembool for a while, all things he’s definitely not going to do.

She says he should wait another month before thinking about making any adjustments to his medication. Off days are normal, especially this early on. After all, medication isn’t a catch all cure for the shitshow that his life has become.

While they’re talking, Trysta effortlessly drifts off to sleep on the carpet, perfectly calm now that he’s no longer holding her. The sense of rejection is as sour as curdled milk. She doesn’t have the mental faculties for any ulterior motive. His presence makes her upset, it’s as simple as that.

Chris wakes up not much later and all but orders him to go lie down, which doesn’t provide much relief. He’s exhausted. Painfully exhausted. But now that the baby is out of his sight, it’s impossible to ignore Roy’s absence.

Maybe he’ll never come back. Maybe Roy will throw him under the bus to salvage his career. Maybe the brass will arrest him on false charges. Maybe they’ll patch together a scandal so awful that Eckert won’t even be able to offer him a job fetching coffee. If that happens, then they’ll have no source of income. It’ll be impossible for either of them to find work. Everything, absolutely everything, will fall apart.

A knock on his door.

“Hey, kid, a package came for you!”

A package? That’s impossible, no one knows he’s staying here.

Unless someone figured it out. Maybe it was leaked to the press. That package could contain anything from bombs to arsenic.

“Who’s it from?!” he shouts from the bed.

“Central Library!”

He exhales in relief. Sheska. That’s right, this is the address he gave her. God, he completely forgot about all that. It was only four days ago, but it feels like a lifetime.

Opening up the large cardboard box, he finds several hundred photographs, an invoice for the film and her hours, and a tin of homemade cookies, which makes him smile for the first time all day. He devours three immediately, and has to admit, they do make him feel a bit better.

Thankfully, the mountain of manuscripts is exactly the distraction he needed.

After Chris leaves for the bar, he barricades himself in the bedroom, deciding not to linger over Trysta more than the bare minimum, knowing that if he spends too much time in her proximity he’ll start to see symptoms for every disease in the world.

He really doesn’t have the mental energy to start translating any of the high academic or heavily abbreviated texts, so he flips through the pile until he comes across a single-page manuscript that’s written in a legible hand with intact ink. With his dictionary and reference books laid out beside him on the bed, he starts pecking away word by word.

It’s fine. It feels good. It keeps him occupied until the sun starts to set, at which point he realizes that Roy really should be home by now.

Fortunately, he doesn’t have to sit with that unease for long, as Riza calls just a few minutes later to tell him that Roy was conscripted on a last minute field mission. Unfortunately she doesn’t have any additional details, except that it has something to do with the drug department, and yes, she’s just as confused as he is. With no timeframe or contacts, all he can do is sit here and wait.

And wait he does.

His progress slows to a crawl as his eyes dart to the clock almost every minute. He’s starving, but can’t motivate himself to eat anything besides the chocolate cookies that are sitting heavy in his stomach. The shaking in his hands steadily spreads throughout his entire body, making the simple task of writing in a straight line a frustrating challenge.

It’s almost eleven now. His vision is pulsing, his frame rocking involuntarily, his mind torturing him with flashes of Roy’s lifeless body. He’s trapped here. Scratching out incorrect nouns and verbs, devoid of agency, terrified as a lost child.

Finally, he hears the creak of the front door. His form goes rigid, listening, praying that it’s not Chris.

No, the footsteps are too fast to be her. It has to be Roy. There’s no one else it could be.

He’s home. He’s safe.

Ed measures Roy’s footfalls as he walks straight to the bathroom and turns on the shower. It’d be nice if he checked in first, but it’s fine, he probably got dirty along the mission or something.

It doesn’t matter. He’s fine. And now it’s the weekend, and neither of them have to leave again for two whole days.

Roy enters the bedroom about ten minutes later clothed in just his boxers. He haphazardly tosses his entire uniform in the laundry basket without even bothering to remove the medals. Even stripped down, the smell of smoke is overwhelming. Ed’s immediate thought is that he must have been smoking, but he quickly realizes that the stench is far too acrid and oppressive.

Of course, they probably enlisted him at the last minute because they needed his flame alchemy for something. Obviously that’s what happened.

“How’d the mission go?” he asks as Roy pulls on a pair of sweatpants.

“Fine. Nothing to write home about. I’ll tell you about it later. What’re you working on?”

Ed bristles a bit at his rushed deflection and the weird angle of his smile. But it’s late, and it’s been an excruciatingly long day. If Roy doesn’t want to talk about it right now, he’ll give him a pass.

“I’m trying to reconstruct this transmutation circle based on these instructions that don’t have any drawings. I mean, we think academia is bad today, but the Xerxians were definitely the ancestral gatekeepers. They almost never drew out their circles. They just described everything point by fucking point because they didn’t want illiterate and uneducated people transmuting their way out of poverty. Amestris may have a lot of problems, but at least we draw our fucking circles.”

Roy pulls on a t-shirt while he’s talking and climbs behind him on the bed. Then he leans over his shoulder to look at the mess of photographs and notes splayed across the comforter.

“It looks like you’re making progress though.”

“Yeah, I think this one's almost done.” He holds up his notebook, displaying a nearly complete circle layered with scribbles and eraser marks. “It’s a fucking hair treatment. Xerxians liked to wear their hair really long, so the rich ones would use alchemy to mend their split ends if you can believe it. It’s just frustrating that I can’t activate it myself. I have plenty of split ends that I’m willing to sacrifice in the name of science.”

Roy gives an amused huff. Then Ed feels the jut of his chin resting against his shoulder as his arms wrap around his middle. Ed stiffens a bit in surprise. Roy coming home in a good mood really didn’t cross his mind as a potential possibility. A surge of cautious optimism runs through him. Maybe things on the outside really aren’t all that bad.

“Well, there’s a perfectly logical solution to this predicament,” Roy says with a playful trill.

“I trim my hair once in a while and start double conditioning?”

“Yes, that could work, but I was thinking about your problem of not being able to transmute.”

Ed’s smile tightens. Roy knows that he doesn’t like to joke about that.

“Oh yeah, what’s your perfectly logical solution to that?” he asks, playing along, but making his discomfort clear.

“Simple. I’ll just give you my alchemy.”

Ed’s heart sinks, hurt tightening in his throat.

“Yeah, sure, that’s cute.”

“No, seriously, think about it. It would be perfect equivalent exchange. I’ll just give you my portal of truth. I lose it, you gain it. Can’t get anymore equivalent than that.”

His tone may be light and teasing, but there’s a disconcerting lilt between his vowels.

As Ed searches for a response, he starts to pick up the faintest trace of liquor on Roy’s breath. It’s hard to separate from the stench of smoke, but it’s definitely there.

“Were you out drinking?” he asks, trying not to sound accusatory, even though he’s coiling with involuntary rage that Roy decided to stop at a bar without bothering to give him a courtesy call.

Roy’s grip around his torso slackens, the tension in his body deflating as his weight slumps against Ed’s back.

“Do you remember when you said that losing your alchemy felt like forgetting your native language? And sure, you can communicate in secondary languages, but it’s never the same.”

Ed gulps.

“Yeah, I remember.”

Roy goes quiet, his chin still resting on his shoulder, the smell of liquor passing Ed’s nose with every breath.

Maybe the conversation is over. He hopes it is. Trying to have a sensible discussion with a drunk person whilst sober is awkward at best and scary at worst.

“I’d give you my alchemy,” Roy whispers. “Without getting anything in return. As a gift. Like I said, it would be perfect equivalent exchange. We could enter through my portal, and leave through yours.”

The purpose in his tone is unmistakable. And terrifying. And the scariest part is that his string of logic makes perfect sense.

“I don’t think it works that way,” Ed replies, attempting to laugh it off.

“Why not? You traded your portal for Al and then left through his gate. It would function exactly the same. Truth couldn’t even argue that the toll is unequal.”

Ed tries to find a hole in his plan. Some oversight or incongruence. Alchemy may be volatile, but from a strictly methodical standpoint, he can’t find any obvious flaws in Roy’s logic. In fact, he feels stupid for never thinking of it himself.

But it doesn’t matter how seamless the logic is on paper. The odds of a rebound will never be worth the risk. There’s nothing, and he means nothing, that could compel him to return to that gap in the universe. Roy must know that.

“Still, you’re talking about human transmutation,” Ed says slowly, making sure Roy understands the implications of what he’s asking.

“No, I’m talking about using a human transmutation circle. We’re not bringing anyone back to life.”

Ed lets out half a laugh. He doesn’t know what in the fucking hell he’s supposed to say. They’ve fallen so far off the rails he can’t even remember what the track used to look like. Roy still hasn’t said a single word about his day. He was supposed to be the messenger, survey the landscape and rely back information on the public response, give Ed a rundown of the damage. Instead he got fucking plastered and decided that risking life and limb to violate the laws of nature was a perfectly reasonable proposal.

What in the fucking hell happened today?

“I know I have a reputation for green-lighting crazy schemes, but you’re really testing my limits here.”

He unhooks Roy’s arms from around his waist and finally turns to look him in the eyes. His disjointed smile is now sagging in a despondent frown that makes him look years older. His gaze is downcast, maybe in embarrassment. The reality of what he just suggested might be catching up with him.

“Hey.” Ed reaches forward to stroke his wet hair. “What happened? What’s wrong?”

Roy chews on his lip while Ed waits patiently, trying not to spur him on even though the seconds are crawling by at the rate of an adrenaline rush.

“I’m thinking of resigning my rank as a state alchemist.”

Confusion. Passive comprehension.

“You mean leaving the military?” he asks neutrally, trying not to betray his subtle hope.

“No, I can resign from my position as a state alchemist while still maintaining my current rank. I would take a minor pay cut and lose my research funding, but that’s fine. I never use it anyway. Except to spoil you,” he says with a twinge of a smile while glancing at the stacks of photographs.

“The fine print is complicated, but remaining a state alchemist actually curtails my authority. During times of war I can’t serve as a commanding officer, and my privileges are reduced to those of a major. That’s part of the compromise for the status and generous benefits.”

Ed is honestly surprised by how coherent he sounds, which leads him to believe that either he’s not as drunk as previously thought, or this has been on his mind for a while.

“But I can resign on the grounds that my current duties don’t afford me enough time to conduct the research necessary to maintain my title. That’s honestly true. I haven’t done any original research in years. I just show up to my assessment every year, snap my fingers, and they let me keep my title because they know I’m too valuable a weapon to lose.”

Again, Ed is at a loss for what to say. It doesn’t sound like Roy is looking for any dissuasion, and even if he was, Ed can’t find any solid reason to disagree with him.

Ever since their relationship started he’s had his suspicions about Roy’s relationship with alchemy. His reluctance to use it for basic tasks sometimes bordered on irrationality. He never seems to talk about it unless Ed brings it up first. He doesn’t keep up with the latest discoveries, dote over the alchemy sections in bookstores, or even scribble out arrays in the margins of his papers, something that Ed finds himself doing impulsively.

They haven’t had a real conversation about it, but Ed has more or less inferred that Roy’s passion for alchemy gradually faded with age and circumstance. And that’s fine, it’s not like he doesn’t have plenty of other interests to keep him busy. So if remaining a state alchemist really is more of a liability than a benefit, then maybe he should give up his title.

But is it really enough of a burden to merit resigning while his career is practically on life support?

“I mean, okay, if you want to, that’s fine. But don’t you think this might be a bad time? I mean, if they really needed an excuse to demote you…”

“I don’t care. When another war comes, I can’t be the human weapon on the frontlines.”

Ed’s breath catches.

“Is there another war coming?”

Roy quickly shakes his head. “No, don’t worry, it’s nothing like that. I’m just thinking in terms of foresight.”

So then why is he so desperate to resign and pawn off his alchemy?

“Believe me, you’d miss your alchemy once it was gone.”

“No, I wouldn’t,” Roy replies with an unsettling laugh. “I don’t care about alchemy the same way you do. I never have. Do you know why I got into it in the first place? I was good at it, people praised me for it, and I knew it paid well. Those are the only reasons.”

Roy looks like he’s on the verge of tears. Throughout this entire nightmare he hasn't broken apart at the seams once. Roy clings to his sense of dignity like a security blanket. The self-deprecation in his voice is out of character to the point of being unrecognizable.

“I never planned on becoming a state alchemist when I joined the military. I knew I wasn’t smart enough to even sit the exam. But then… Riza gave me a goldmine. Suddenly I was the only person in the world who could perform flame alchemy. I just had to be a fucking idiot and hand myself over to the military because I couldn’t resist the opportunity to show off.”

Ed doesn’t know what else to do besides gather him in his arms and lean in close. Roy lets out a sob against his shirt, his frame trembling like he just emerged from the cold.

“After I lost my sight, I was fully prepared to do what you did: trade my alchemy for my eyes. The only reason I didn’t is because I knew that giving up my portal meant that I’d have no way of getting back. But that wouldn’t be an issue in this case. We’d enter through mine and leave through yours.”

Fuck, he thought Roy was ready to drop this. What more can he possibly say to convince him that going through the portal for any reason large or small is a catastrophically terrible idea?

“Yeah, I understand the mechanics, but it’s not going to happen.”

“Please, Ed, I want to give it to you,” he pleads. “You can do so much with it. You can make the world better. Help people, heal them. Look at the research you’re doing. I’ve never done anything close to this.”

“Then start. You’re so, so smart. Resign as a state alchemist, that’s fine. You can help me with my research. I need someone to help me experiment with the arrays anyway.”

“But I don’t want to!” Roy projects louder than necessary, causing Ed to flinch, hurt and confused by his outburst.

“Sorry, I mean, yes, I want to help you, but…” he shakes his head side to side, his breathing harsh and eyes red. “If your child died, could you ever go back to being a teacher? Being around children all day, trying not to think about your own?”

His question causes a thousand visceral anxieties to resurface. The corrosive thoughts that have been tormenting him all day.

“That’s a rhetorical question, right?”

Roy nods. “That’s how I feel about alchemy. Do you think I light the stove with a match because I can’t be bothered to get my gloves? No, I do it because all it takes is one transmutation to ruin my day. There are no positive associations left. I can never separate alchemy from the people I killed with it. It was manageable before, but after the portal…” he swallows and gasps as his words taper off.

Sometimes it’s easy to forget about Ishval. The vast majority of the country is certainly ready to leave it in the past. Yes, Roy’s actions are inexcusable from every angle. He’ll never earn forgiveness. It’s a gash that will never stop bleeding.

Ed will readily admit that he used his alchemy for many things he wasn’t proud of, but he can honestly say that no one ever died as a consequence. Even after losing his limbs, alchemy was never a source of distress. It was neutral. A simple bodily function. Disliking it made no more sense than disliking the feel of breathing or walking.

But Roy’s alchemy is first and foremost a tool for destruction and slaughter. He’s right, its lethal potential is the reason why the state recruited him, and probably plied him with lies and assurances to secure his loyalty.

Now that he really thinks about it, the fact that Roy can still use flame alchemy at all is nothing short of miraculous. If Ed were in his shoes, just the sound of snapping fingers would probably be enough to trigger a panic attack.

Suddenly it all makes sense. The mission he got called away on, that’s what set him off. They must have ordered him to use his alchemy against his will. Made him do something terrible. It’s so obvious he feels stupid for not picking up the signs earlier.

“Okay, maybe I can figure something out. Something that doesn’t require human transmutation,” he says cautiously. Roy’s eyes immediately dart to his, full of surprise and hope.

His words aren’t completely empty. He does remember reading something about a Xerxian array that was used to inhibit alchemy. Something they tattooed on slaves and prisoners. The details are fuzzy, but it’s in his notes somewhere. And it’s definitely not a long shot to posit that the Xerxians experimented with exchanging alchemy in some capacity. Their ethical codes on bodily autonomy weren’t exactly conservative.

“I can’t make any promises, but if it’s causing you that much pain, I want to help,” he says, reaching forward to touch Roy’s shoulder.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it. But seriously, what happened tonight? You smell like smoke.”

Roy heaves a sigh and stares down at his hands.

“I killed a man tonight.”

 

  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ twitter](https://twitter.com/blissymbolics1)


	11. Eyu

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! I hope you like suffering :)

After Ishval, he was granted a one-year reprieve from active duty. Ed knows this. But he doesn’t know that he spent three months out of that year in a psychiatric ward.

He remembers stepping off the train in Central with his pockets still full of sand from the desert. He remembers waving goodbye to Hughes on the platform and accepting that they would likely never see each other again. He remembers locking the door to his small apartment and vowing not to leave unless he was zipped up in a bodybag.

His routine for the next two months was simple:

Wake up. _I want to die._ Light a cigarette. _I want to die._ Stare outside at traffic. _I want to die._

He ordered his groceries by phone and still ate the bare minimum. He drank and smoked until his chest burned with every breath. There was no point in keeping his organs healthy. They would be of no use to him soon.

He slept for most of the day and spent his conscious hours in vaguely lucid spells of intoxication. There were bars of lead stitched into his muscles. His mind broadcasted an endless reel of imaginary futures for the lives he cut short, pounding across his vision like the ribbon of a typewriter.

The only activity that brought him any relief was envisioning the circumstances of his death. Sitting on the floor, he spent hours sketching out pictures of himself hanging from a noose affixed to the rafters. Or broken and bloodied on the sidewalk six flights down from his window. He always loved drawing pictures of his house as a kid. So now he drew out his tombstone: an unmarked grave covered with overgrown weeds.

He didn’t want to die per se.

He wanted to have a normal life. He wanted to find joy in the small mundane pleasures. He wanted to go back in time and stop himself from destroying all potential for happiness.

He did this to himself. There’s no recovery. There’s no therapy or treatment capable of manipulating his brain into blissful amnesia.

Soon, he told himself. I’ll do it soon.

From the back of his closet he dragged out the large box that held the remnants of his childhood. Huddled in bed, he read the picture books that still had imprints from his grubby little hands. He neatly arranged his toy cars on the floor, sometimes losing hours just rolling them back and forth along the grain of the wood. Eyu rarely left his side, and in every draft of his note he specified that he wanted to be buried with the stuffed crocodile that felt like a lifeline connecting him back to the happiness he would never experience again.

He was twenty-two and his life was over. He died on the Ishvalan battlefield in every way except physically. He was in a coma with his body being sustained on life support.

Soon, he cried into Eyu’s fur. I’ll do it soon.

Hughes was the one who had him admitted, though not intentionally. He stopped by his apartment just to check in and found him unconscious in bed, his breathing shallow and lips blue. He was rushed to the hospital to be treated for alcohol poisoning, and after regaining consciousness, the doctors realized that he was in no condition to leave.

The psychiatrists assigned to his case were at a complete loss. After all, how are you supposed to convince a man who murdered hundreds, if not thousands of people that his life held any value? There wasn’t a single string of words in any language living or dead that could convince him that he didn’t deserve to die. That he didn’t deserve to be dragged out back and shot like a dog.

They told him that he had to learn new methods of thinking. Train his mind to circumvent the trauma. Practice awareness, correct negative thought patterns, quit smoking, eat healthy, get exercise. Self-forgiveness was a “key ingredient in healing.”

It made him angry. Violently angry. They were lying to him. They had to be. If they weren’t, then they were obviously delusional or sociopathic if they genuinely believed that he could simply reeducate his brain to view mass genocide as an unfortunate mistake deserving of recompense.

He remembers retreating into obstinate silence for days after one doctor suggested that he try writing letters to the people he killed.

At the very least no one had the audacity to look him in the eye and say: _It’s not your fault. You were just following orders._

The medication had hardly any effect, but they still obsessively altered and levied his dose. But the only effective regime seemed to entail loading him up with tranquilizers so strong that he wasn’t physically capable of thinking or feeling anything.

The doctors liked to pretend that he was mentally ill, but he was self-aware enough to know that wasn’t true. Mental illness constitutes irrational or abnormal emotions and thought patterns that manifest as a result of trauma, injury, or biology; and his reactions were anything but irrational. He was behaving exactly as any sane, stable person ought to after slaughtering the remnants of an entire nation.

He never even received an official diagnosis besides garden variety battle trauma, which they just used as a convenient excuse to stamp a label on his record in lieu of acknowledging that the only condition he suffered from was a lethal mixture of perfectly human grief and guilt.

Even today he harbors suspicions that the medical staff were operating under military orders to coach veterans away from the idea that the act of killing was responsible for their instability. To assure them that their trauma wasn’t a response to the death and suffering they inflicted, no, it was the stress of combat. The fear that you could die at any second. Obviously that was the cause. Even when you were responsible for executing unarmed children and tossing their bodies into a mass grave. 

No one wanted to acknowledge the obvious truth that humans are not meant to kill. That you can’t order thousands of people to carry out genocide and then expect them to return to their daily lives plagued by nothing more than a few nightmares and a bit of anxiety.

He wasn’t sick. There was nothing wrong with him. They couldn’t fix something that wasn’t broken.

That’s what he told them, over and over again, but no one seemed to listen.

Lying awake in bed on his seventy-third night of hospitalization, he felt a pain creep up through his chest. It was mild at first, like a bad case of heartburn. But then it flared beneath his ribs as if he swallowed down a cup of bleach. It shot through his arteries like liquid fire, circulating with the frenzied beats of his heart. His extremities began to tingle and then go numb. He struggled for air, gasping erratically, his vision oscillating as pulsing black spots spread across his vision, then subsumed his sight.

He was dying. Finally, he was dying.

But then a split second later, it ended. The pain vanished, his vision flashed back to normal, the roaring in his ears went quiet. His body felt light, wrung out. He could have cried from the disappointment. But then he realized that not only was the pain gone, but all sensation in his body. The sting around his eyes, the chill of his sweat, the breath in his lungs, it was all gone.

Because he wasn’t breathing.

He was dead.

After sunrise, a nurse entered his room to bring him breakfast and a cup of pills. She called his name, shook his arm, and ran out to get help. He lay there unresponsive as the orderlies wheeled him down to intensive care. They put defibrillators on his chest. Five jolts, and he felt none of it.

His death was officially declared at 7:43 in the morning.

Then he was brought down to the morgue where they drained his blood and sliced open his chest. Once his corpse was processed, they transported him to the funeral home where he was dressed and polished.

Two days later they drove him out to the cemetery. He couldn’t see anything beyond the lining of the coffin, but he could feel the car swaying along the dirt road.

To his utmost joy, they placed Eyu at his side. A calm sense of reverence blanketed his inanimate body as he was finally reunited with his dearest friend and companion. Then the lid of the casket fell shut and the steady pull of gravity began to beckon him into the ground. Clothed in darkness, the sound of pattering dirt lulled him to sleep.

And that’s when he woke up.

In his bed. In the psych ward. Breathing, conscious, reeling from the painful sensations of life that were stripped from him in the dream.

That dream. The longest, most memorable, vivid dream of his life is what saved him. He still doesn't understand exactly what happened. His knowledge of psychology is extremely thin, but he can confidently say that something inside of him snapped – hit a breaking point with deafening force. After months of chronic suffering, it seems like his brain finally started snapping circuits and rearranging wire, patching together a survival strategy without his consent.

The pain was still there. The guilt, remorse, grief, it was all still there. But it felt lighter, more negligible, as if he was coping with the aftermath of murdering one person instead of a thousand.

No one fully understands how the brain functions. The way it filters out information, stores and compounds memories. He wishes he could compare two x-rays of his brain: before the dream and after. It must look different now. A new shape, a new texture. It must be smaller after slicing away the trillions of cells that formed his entire mental foundation.

He felt guilty. Immeasurably guilty. Not for the people he killed, but because he no longer grieved for them as intensely as he did before. He tried. He would force himself to dwell on Ishval from every angle: the years he stole, the civilization he destroyed, the survivors he left to suffer in the aftermath. He’d work himself up into depressive spirals, but they would fade away by the next morning.

For the first time since his first kill, he felt like there was something irrevocably wrong with him. If he wasn’t mentally ill before, he certainly was now.

The doctors clearly disagreed. They discharged him barely two weeks later with a prescription for anti-depressants and biweekly appointments with a therapist, and that was the end of it.

After his release from the hospital, the military should have granted him an honorable discharge on the grounds of psychological disability. That would have been the ethical course of action, one they offered to numerous veterans who served in Ishval.

Not him though. It was never even discussed as an option. Instead they buried his medical history and carved out a promotion because they knew his skills were too valuable to waste.

Indispensable. That’s what they called him. He always wondered how far he had to fall, what crimes he would have to commit to finally exhaust his worth.

Now it seems like he’s finally found his answer.

There’s no mail waiting for him on Monday morning. Riza’s inbox is nearly empty as well.

It’s obvious what’s happening. The departments in Central and the East are weaving around him, communicating with each other directly. As it turns out, the position of Liaison Officer does make him somewhat dispensable.

Even though he doesn’t believe that everyone in the government personally hates him, it’s clear that they’re all preparing for his absence. They’re waiting for his replacement to be assigned. After all, there’s no point involving him in important matters when he should already be gone by now.

In fact, he’s confused as to why he’s still here.

All weekend long he waited for his discharge letter. When it didn’t come, he expected to find it waiting on his desk, but no such luck.

After what happened on Friday, he was more than convinced that the senior staff would manipulate the situation to their advantage. It was simply too convenient an opportunity to ignore. They could falsify evidence, collect incorrect testimonies. If Roce and Neumeister testified against him, then their word would be taken as gospel, even if some of the lower officers contradicted their claims.

But that outcome seemed to grow less probable the more he thought about it. The case would still have to go through the Court Martial Office, and it wouldn’t exactly be open and shut. Any competent lawyer could pick apart the inconsistencies. Besides, prosecuting him for an accident like that would open up a massive can of worms regarding the dozens of unarmed drug dealers who are shot point blank every year.

And when it comes down to it, Jacob Neumeister may have been the son of a Major, but he was still a drug trafficker, and not even a tragically sympathetic one at that, given his lengthy criminal record. And from a legal standpoint, it would be difficult to justify prosecuting him without also incriminating Roce and Neumeister for shirking protocol in the first place.

It would be a complicated fight all around. It’d be messy to say the least. Time-consuming, ethically ambiguous, and precarious considering that he could very well win the case with competent enough legal representation.

He doubts that the brass want to go through all that trouble when they could just discharge him on the grounds of sexual orientation. It’s not a new concept. There are dozens of known instances of military officers being discharged after their same sex preferences were exposed. He may be the highest-ranked among them, but given his current reputation, he doubts there would be much public pushback.

Still, he supposes that from a historical perspective, leaving the military as the highest-ranked openly gay officer isn’t such a terrible legacy to leave behind.

“Sir, how does this look?” Riza asks, handing him the sheet of paper she’s been scribbling away at for the last hour.

After telling her about his plan to resign as a state alchemist, she volunteered to help him draft out his letter. But as expected, she ended up doing all of the work.

He skims across the lines of her inhumanly neat penmanship, barely taking in the actual words. On his second read through he can clearly see that it’s direct, organized, professional, exactly what he needs and nothing less than he expected.

But still, every concrete word seems to chip away a fragment of his rapidly withering pride.

Before Edward came along, he was the youngest state alchemist in history. A position he certainly didn’t achieve fully on merit. To this day he still has trouble believing that he actually passed the written portion of the exam. He walked out of that lecture hall certain that he failed. The judges knew about his flame alchemy beforehand. Of course they would have no reservations about doctoring his score to push him on to the next round.

This inferiority complex has haunted him for the past fourteen years. Flame alchemy is the only reason he’s made it this far. It may be the only reason why the military still hasn’t let him go.

He can’t view resignation as an admittance of defeat. He signed his life over to the military when he took the title of Flame Alchemist, and now he’s claiming back his autonomy. And if this is the final straw that pushes him out, then so be it. He can finally move on, cut away this infection, reestablish his worth without the aid of a form of alchemy that has brought him nothing but misery.

“Yes, this looks good. Thank you.” He smiles to Riza, then looks down to scan through the letter again.

Just then, a slow firm knock resounds against the door. Riza glances at him for permission, then stands and walks across the room to answer it.

She pulls open the large cedar door to reveal Colonel Plannck, standing in the threshold with his hands behind his back.

“Sorry, I hope I’m not interrupting,” he calls across the room.

“Not at all. Please, come in,” Roy calls back, flipping the letter over to hide it from view. “What can I do for you?” he asks cooly, bracing himself for whatever nightmare the Investigations Department has in store for him.

“I can already sense that you’re nervous, but don’t worry, I’m not here because of what happened on Friday,” he says while walking forward and taking a seat across from him. “My department reviewed all of the statements given by the present officers, and it’s clear that what happened wasn’t your fault. Simply an unfortunate set of circumstances.”

Roy has to admit, he’s surprised. He knew the odds of a full investigation were slim to none, but he anticipated some form of disciplinary action, even just a minor penalty.

Did Roce and Neumeister really testify to his innocence? They must have. Is he really going to get out of this without so much as a warning? It’s entirely possible, considering that he murdered half of Ishval and all it did was bolster his career.

“Glad to hear it,” he replies with a strained smile, “but I’m guessing that’s not the only reason you’re here.”

“No, it’s not, unfortunately. It’s actually somewhat of an awkward matter. I was going to send you a formal request, but I thought it’d be more appropriate to ask in person. You see, my superiors have asked me to bring Edward in for questioning. He’s not in trouble of course, but they’d like to collect his formal testimony regarding… his experience as your subordinate.”

Roy feels a snarl building in the back of his throat.

Of course the generals are willing to stoop this low. This is probably the reason why they haven’t discharged him yet. They want to dangle him on a string for a while longer. Harass them under the veil of due diligence.

“Don’t you think that’s a bit, what’s the word? Undignified?” he asks, uncaring how abrasive it sounds.

“I couldn’t agree more. As far as I’m concerned, the military has no business meddling in your personal life. But unfortunately, my superiors made it clear that if he doesn’t cooperate voluntarily, they may resort to subpoenaing his testimony.”

Roy’s first impulse is to snap that they have no authority over Edward anymore, but then he realizes that’s categorically false.

The military is allowed to court martial a retired soldier for any crimes they may have committed during active duty. It doesn’t matter if Ed is a civilian now, if they want to interrogate him, they’re legally authorized to pull him away from the civilian courts and subject him to all the unfair and imbalanced processes that any other soldier would be forced to endure.

Still, they must be aware that they’re not going to get anything out of such a scheme. Although they really don’t have anything to lose either. It’s not like they’re going to publicly release Ed’s testimony if he asserts that he wasn’t sexually abused. It’s not going to change anything. It’s just harassment, plain and simple.

“I believe I already know the answer to this question, but do your superiors genuinely believe that I molested him, or are they just chickenshit bastards using this as an excuse to harass and humiliate us for their own sick amusement?”

Riza shoots him a stern glare and Plannck looks noticeably taken aback by his language. He doesn’t care though. It’s not like he has anything left to lose.

“Closer to the latter, I would say,” he responds with an uncomfortable chuckle.

Roy sighs and drums his pen against the desk.

“Would you conduct the interview?” he asks, choosing the more forgiving term instead of calling it what it actually is:

An interrogation.

“I can if you like.”

Roy wishes more than ever that Hughes was still alive. That he was still a high-ranking officer in the Investigation Department. He’d firmly stand in Roy’s corner. He wouldn’t cave into the whims of the senior staff.

He’s not alive though. Roy is in this on his own.

Still, he can’t drag Ed into this. Whatever happens inside this building should be his concern and his alone.

“Edward rightfully doesn’t want to be seen in public right now.”

“We could set up a time after hours. Maybe early morning or late evening. There’s a maintenance staircase that leads from the east parking lot straight up to our offices. I can send someone down to let you in.”

Roy rotates in his chair to look out the window, uncaring how rude it is.

Staring up at the cloud-covered grey sky, he thinks through his options.

If Edward goes through with the interview, it’ll be awful, no question, but probably inconsequential. There’s nothing he needs to lie about, and most of the senior staff probably know this.

They’re probably hoping that Edward will refuse the summons so they can weave it into the nationwide conspiracy. It certainly won’t reflect well on them if Ed declines to voluntarily testify for an informal interview.

The brass would probably leak his refusal to the press, and he doubts that they’ll make the same mistake of contacting a reporter who will give him a friendly warning.

Even if he resigns today, the generals will still have the authority to subpoena them both. Nothing short of permanently leaving the country can relieve them from that.

Finally, he tears his eyes away from the sky and spins back to face Plannck.

“I’ll talk to him about it. But be honest with me. It’s not going to end here, is it? Even if I resign, they’ll still come after us, won’t they?”

Roy swears he can see sympathy weighing down Plannck’s expression.

“I’m certainly not high enough up the ladder to know the inner motives of the senior staff, but in my opinion, I believe that pushing you towards resignation is their ultimate goal.”

In other words, resign and they’ll leave Edward out of this.

“I’ll talk with him,” Roy all but whispers, “and give you an answer tomorrow.”

Roy’s not sure how much longer he can endure this. How much suffering he can force on Ed and himself. Especially since Ed’s mental state has deteriorated drastically over the last couple days.

Roy was initially fearful that his intoxicated begging is what pushed him over the edge, but Ed assured him that it was unrelated. That his brain had already initiated its sabotage efforts.

Still, Roy apologized profusely for broaching such an idiotic request. It was insensitive of him to rant about how much he hates alchemy when Ed loves and misses it more than anything. It was even more unforgivable to actually suggest human transmutation. He was truly a disaster from all angles.

Things were awkward between them all weekend. They barely spoke, didn’t touch each other as they slept. They lingered in separate rooms and only overlapped to trade duties monitoring the baby.

They really should leave Chris’ place soon and get back to their real home. Public interest has waned enough that it shouldn’t pose an issue, and they could both benefit from being back in familiar surroundings.

Being in proximity to the baby may also be doing Ed more harm than good. His initial infatuation with her seems to have grown into hyper-fixation. He refused to leave her side all weekend. Lying next to her on the rug for hours watching the rise and fall of her chest, reaching out to touch her if she looked too still.

Roy offered to take care of her for a while so that Ed could spend some more time with his research, but he refused, electing instead to sleepwalk through the motions of parenting. Alternating between lucid detachment and hyper-vigilant obsession.

They really need to leave. He needs to get Ed home. Ensure that he sleeps for more than two-hour intervals. Maybe ship him out to Risembool for a while so he can at least get some fresh air without fear of being seen in public. He needs to rest. He needs to detach himself from all of this.

Roy spent most of the weekend sitting on the windowsill in their bedroom chain smoking Chris’ cigarettes just like when he was a teenager.

There’s still so much he needs to do. So many plans, damage control, an overwhelming anxiety-inducing cascade of salvage efforts. But he barely has the motivation to carry out the necessary tasks of survival.

His most pressing concern right now should be finding a lawyer; a task he’s been procrastinating on for the past two weeks because he simply doesn’t know where to start. He considered asking Chris for some recommendations, but figured that hiring a lawyer who regularly represents sex workers wouldn’t exactly reflect well on them.

Suddenly he realizes the obvious solution. He should just ask Eckert. Why didn’t he think of that before? He served as a judge for almost four decades, and a fairly progressive one at that. He must know at least a few open-minded attorneys who would be willing to represent them.

But is he still in Eckert’s good graces? Based on the conversation he had with Riza last week, it doesn’t sound like he wants anything to do with him.

Still, even if Eckert no longer likes him, he still owes him. Besides, asking for a referral is such a minor request it can hardly be called a favor.

Before he can talk himself out of it, he picks up the phone and dials his office.

“This is the office of Führer Eckert, how may I help you?” a young woman’s voice chimes.

“Yes, I would like to schedule an appointment with the Führer, in person or over the phone, either will do.”

“May I have your name and the nature of the appointment?”

“Yes, it’s Brigadier General Roy Mustang, and it’s in regards to some complaints my office has received from the Ishvalan Municipal Office regarding Governor Bernidas.”

It’s a lie, though not entirely false. There were always complaints coming in about Governor Bernidas.

The woman doesn’t immediately respond, to the point where he almost expects her to hang up.

“I’m sorry, could you hold on a moment?” she asks with a nervous cheeriness.

“Certainly.”

“Thank you.”

The line goes quiet. He leans back and waits, occasionally glancing at Riza, who is occupying herself by fiddling with her gun. The lack of productivity is clearly eating away at her too.

Suddenly, there’s a click in the line, followed by a familiar voice.

“Roy?”

He’ll never get used to Eckert addressing him by his first name.

“Yes, it’s me.”

“Good, I’m glad you called. Listen, I’ve been meaning to get in touch with you. I feel like I didn’t express myself well to Riza last week. I was short on time and still caught off guard by the news.”

Roy’s not exactly sure how to respond. He really didn’t anticipate getting past the secretary's desk.

“It’s alright. I understand.”

“No, I’m at fault. I should have articulated myself better, so let me set the record straight now. What I meant to tell her is that I sincerely want to offer you a position in my cabinet, but unfortunately, any position with real authority will require a majority vote from Parliament, and as things are now, I just don’t see that happening.”

Roy inferred as much, but hearing it firsthand is reassuring.

The Führer may be responsible for handing out cabinet nominations, but every candidate needs to earn approval from at least fifty percent of Parliament. It’s not a new requirement, but since Amestris is no longer a single-party system, breaking past that threshold isn’t as much of a formality as it used to be.

Still, it’s difficult to quell his bitterness. If his relationship with Ed weren’t a factor, then he would easily cinch that fifty percent. Hell, he’s one of the main reasons why the Parliamentarians even have a majority in the first place.

But Eckert’s right. There’s no point in nominating him for a position when he’s almost guaranteed to fall short.

Before he can offer any response, Eckert continues:

“But I don’t want your talents to go to waste. I still have a couple of smaller appointments to fill. Ones that don’t require parliamentary approval. Perhaps we can arrange a time this week to discuss a few options.”

All of Roy’s reservations from last week are tossed to the wayside as his survival instincts latch onto Eckert’s words. He can’t afford to be picky anymore. With his odds of staying in the military rapidly diminishing, he’ll seize any opportunity to snatch a government job.

“Thank you, sir. That is immensely generous. Yes, let’s meet sometime this week. But I was actually calling about another matter. You see, I need some legal advice.”

“Oh dear, what trouble have you gotten yourself into this time?”

Roy can’t help but smile. There was something about Eckert’s tone and demeanor that always seemed to cheer him up. He reminds him of Grumman in many ways, and he can’t deny that that was a subconscious factor in his selection.

“Well, the senior staff have asked Edward to voluntarily testify regarding his treatment as my subordinate. I was wondering if you could recommend any lawyers. And in your expert opinion, should we have a lawyer present during the interview?”

“Hmm…” Eckert hums in exaggerated contemplation. “If I were your legal consultant, I would advise you to have an attorney present at all times. However, if I were your public relations specialist, I would tell you that bringing in a lawyer this early may be exploited as a sign of guilt. It’s your decision. And Edward’s of course. But as for your first question, there are a few names that come to mind. Give me a day or so and I’ll send you a few contacts. Whatever you decide, it certainly doesn’t hurt to have someone waiting in the wings.”

“Thank you, sir. I really do appreciate it.”

“It’s no trouble. Honestly, I detest this type of harassment and always have. Did they threaten to subpoena his testimony if he doesn’t cooperate?”

“Oh, most certainly,” Roy answers with a smile.

“Typical. Well, if my time on the bench taught me anything, it’s this: They’re not going to launch an investigation, and they’re certainly not going to court martial you. Investigations and trials take time, resources, money, which they’re not going to waste on a stunt that they have no hope of cobbling together into an actual case.”

The reassurance in Eckert’s voice soothes the inflammation in his body like a balm. Not only is he dispelling one of Roy’s greatest fears, but he genuinely believes that Roy is telling the truth.

Eckert knows that he never touched Edward. That there’s nothing illicit about their relationship. Roy was honestly terrified that Eckert was only offering him a job out of obligation; but no, he still considers him a friend. The relief nearly moves him to tears.

“So what do you suggest?” he asks. “Should we call their bluff and refuse the summons?”

“That’s a tricky one. If Edward refuses to testify, I wouldn’t put it past them to leak that information to the press, which would bode very poorly for the both of you.”

That was Roy’s exact line of thinking. He’s both relieved and disappointed to have it verified.

“But if I’m being frank," Eckert continues, “even if Edward goes through with the interview, I doubt it will do you any favors. I can say with near certainty that they’re not going to discharge you. They don’t want to give you anymore time in the limelight and they certainly don’t want to turn you into a martyr. If you don’t resign voluntarily, my best guess is they’ll transfer you back out east or who knows where and leave you to whither on the vine.”

Roy’s chest caves in. The brutal honestly in his words is piercing.

“Roy, I truly think it’s in your best interest to leave, and leave soon. All of my appointments need to be filled within the next month or so, and it will be very difficult to find you a position after that. My guess is if you resign today, they’ll drop the matter with Edward entirely.”

Roy feels something inside of him shrivel into a husk. It’s strange. He always anticipated leaving the military. Not this soon, but not so far in the distant future either.

But now that he actually has an ultimatum, that irrational sense of pride is gripping its talons tight.

There are still all of the rational arguments he made against leaving the military: the struggle of reelection, the instability of the new government, the necessity of keeping young and liberal officers in the military…

But none of those arguments hold water anymore. It’s either accept a low-to-mid tier government position or linger in perpetual stagnation.

This shouldn’t be a difficult decision. The military obviously intends to make his life miserable if he stays. Besides, he’s still young, comparatively speaking. Even if it feels like he’s on death’s door. But he has enough time to rebuild himself, even if the path towards success is laced with ever-mounting obstacles.

There’s still time.

It’s just pride. That infernal sin. Whispering in his ear and telling him that resignation is an admittance of defeat. It’s cowardly. It means handing them a victory.

No. That’s not true. That’s just vanity speaking.

“Do you have time to meet on Friday?” Roy asks. “I’ll give you my answer then.”

“Sure, how does a lunch meeting sound?”

“Perfect. Also… I’m sorry, I know this is inappropriate to ask, but... you’re truly comfortable with my relationship with Edward? Ethically speaking?”

Eckert just gives a small laugh.

“I spent almost forty years handing out sentences for some of the cruelest misdeeds imaginable. Crimes so awful they made jury members faint. There are very few in Amestris who have seen the depths of depravity that I have. I think those calling your relationship unethical could truly benefit from some perspective.”

Roy actually laughs in response, teetering on the verge of delirious.

-

The day is almost over, and he still needs to figure out how to broach the matter to Ed.

Even though Eckert and Plannck seem to think that resigning will placate the senior staff, he wouldn’t put it past them to spin his resignation to their benefit. If he quits before Ed sits for the interview, then those bastards will probably accuse them of hiding something. They could further inflame the scandal to sabotage his appointment. Incite more fabricated controversy. Force Eckert to rescind his offer.

God, he’s so fucking tired of playing these games of chess.

He ultimately decides to leave the decision to Ed. If he firmly says no, then they’ll find a way around it. They’ll figure something out. With Eckert on their side, the ball is still in their court. The powers of the Führership may be drastically more limited than they were during Bradley’s reign, but it’s still the highest office in the land.

“Do you want me to submit this to human resources?” Riza asks, holding up his resignation letter.

He thinks about it for a moment, weighing the pros and cons.

Ultimately, there’s no logical reason to submit it. The whole purpose of resigning as a state alchemist is to ensure that he can’t be exploited as a human weapon. But it’s highly unlikely that he’ll still be in the military by next week, much less in time for them to ship him off to another battlefield.

“Let’s give it a week,” he says decisively, depositing the letter in his briefcase.

-

To his unparalleled shock, Ed agrees to the interview without any persuasion.

Roy was fully prepared for him to outright refuse, and was already starting to formulate alternative plans on the drive home.

“They’re going to ask if you touched me as a kid and I’m going to say no. I want it on the record. I’m fucking tired of people accusing you of keeping me on a short leash.”

Ed may be marginally less headstrong than when he was a kid, but his sense of misguided obligation is no less. He seems to view this as a way to clear Roy’s reputation. Assert his own autonomy. And Roy suspects that he still harbors lingering guilt over suggesting that they come out in the first place, which may be a stronger motivating factor than Ed is willing to admit.

Still, Roy is nervous. They’ll definitely make the interrogation as draining as possible, and he wouldn’t put it past them to try sneaking in some incriminating questions in an attempt to manipulate Ed’s testimony.

But maybe he shouldn’t be so controlling. Ed is objectively a genius after all, and he’s navigated through far more threatening scenarios with authority figures. If he’s set his mind on this, then clearly he feels that he can handle it. Besides, going through with the interview will probably benefit them more in the longrun than the alternative.

-

As promised, the very next morning he receives a letter from Eckert containing the contact information for three attorneys. Roy has to admit he’s disappointed. He’d hoped that Eckert would only send one recommendation to spare Roy the process of vetting them. He just doesn’t have the mental energy to review their case listings, interview them, read through all the fine print and technicalities.

It’s all immensely important, but the simple process of dragging himself out of bed has been difficult enough.

He procrastinates all day, even though he has no other work to do.

About ten minutes before five, he calls Plannck to tell him that Edward has agreed to the interview.

Still, he’s caught off guard when Plannck suggests holding it the very next morning. Roy had hoped that they would have at least a few days. At least enough time to select a lawyer and hold a consultation.

But maybe it’s best to get it over with before Friday. That way he can quit immediately after his appointment with Eckert and finally escape this hell.

He’s just so tired. He selfishly wants this to be over. He wants to neatly fold up this chapter of his life and seal it off in the past.

He just has to make it until his meeting with Eckert. Just three more days. He can survive that long, but not much more.

 

* * *

 

On Wednesday morning, Ed steps out in public for the first time in more than a week.

Neither of them got much sleep that night. Ed snuck out of bed shortly after Roy dozed off so that he could curl up on the couch next to the crib. It was an unhealthy habit that Roy was trying to gently deter, as every innocuous sigh and gurgle that Trysta emitted in her sleep seemed to be enough to rouse him and propel him into a state of worry.

Now there were deep bags under his eyes and his complexion made him look categorically ill. Roy watched him sluggishly mope around the apartment while getting ready, barely eating more than a few bites of toast before returning to the baby to cradle her until it was time to leave.

Roy almost suggested that they cancel, but restrained himself. Cancelling now would reflect poorly on them, and they really can’t afford to give the senior staff any more ammunition. Besides, if Plannck asks Ed about his condition, he can truthfully say that they’ve been helping care for a newborn. Plannck has children. He’ll understand.

Still, there’s definitely something off about Ed. Roy anticipated anxiety from being out in public, even just for the short walk to the car, but instead Ed seems completely checked out.

The sleep deprivation must really be taking its toll.

They’ll leave Chris’ place tomorrow, he decides. For Ed’s own good. He can visit the baby during the daytime, but they need to remove as many sources of stress from his life as possible.

“Remember, this is completely on your own terms,” Roy says as they’re driving. He’s given this speech before, and now he’s just repeating it to calm his own nerves. “You’re allowed to decline any question for any reason. If you ever feel like they’re trying to entrap you, or harass you, if you ever feel uncomfortable, ask to postpone the interview until you can have a lawyer present.”

“Roy, please shut the fuck up.”

Roy’s vision briefly tunnels. His cognitive functions disassociate. He glances at Ed, wondering if he misheard him through the slur of his words.

But no. He said it. And as the minutes drag on, he gives no apology.

He just stares out the window, his head leaning against the glass, detached and expressionless, his eyelids drooping dangerously low.

Roy should turn around right now. But Central Command is only a block away.

He pulls into the nearly empty parking lot and parks next to the inconspicuous door that leads to the maintenance staircase. Someone should be down within the next couple of minutes to let them in.

His grip on the steering wheel remains steady. He’s feverishly calculating, debating the pros and cons of turning around. Driving until they’re beyond the city limits. Leaving the map behind, breaking out of this nightmare and disappearing.

“I can’t go in,” Ed says slowly, his head still slumped against the glass.

Roy sighs. “Why not?”

He’s floating somewhere beyond his skin.

“I just took my medication.”

“And?”

“I took more of it than I was supposed to.”

Roy breaks out in a cold sweat. “How much more?” he asks firmly.

He can’t do this right now. He can’t drive Ed to the hospital to have his stomach pumped. Of course he will if he needs to, but…

He’s on the edge. He’s starting to crack. One more slight push and he might just shatter.

“Just three. One plus two, not one plus three.”

Roy exhales in relief. Ed will be fine. Physically, at least. One less struggle they have to suffer through.

“Fucking hell, Ed.” He’s not even angry. He’s not sure if he's even capable of feeling anything beyond concentrated misery.

“I’m sorry, I fucked up,” Ed sobs, finally lifting his heavy head from the glass. Roy can see tears starting to well in his eyes.

“No, it’s okay. We’ll reschedule. It’s fine,” Roy says passively, his words ringing distant in his own ears.

“No, I can do it now.” Ed reaches for the door handle and Roy has to put a hand out to stop him.

“No, you can’t. We’re going to go home, relax, and forget about this.” He’s not sure if his voice carries any degree of assurance.

He flips the ignition before Ed can protest any further and quickly pulls them out of the parking lot, checking the rearview mirror to make sure that the door to the maintenance staircase is still shut before they turn out of sight.

The ride is silent. Ed repositions himself against the window, occasionally sniffing and wiping at his face with his sleeve. Roy wracks his brain for something to say, but there’s nothing. It’s taking all of his focus just to keep them from colliding into an accident. To keep his eyes open, his hands moving, his feet shifting. It feels like he’s back in the dream. A ghost inhabiting a corpse.

While waiting at a red light, it dawns on him that he has a choice to make.

He can turn left and drive them back to Chris’ place where Ed can continue festering in his pungent den of dirty diapers and ceaseless crying.

Or he can turn right and take them back to their real home, without consent if he needs to. Get Ed into bed, read to him, stroke his hair and whisper empty promises, try to reconstruct some hollow illusion of stability.

Or he can continue going straight and start driving east. Drive all night if he needs to. Get them to Risembool where they can find freedom from the city poison. Run away. Never come back.

The light turns green. He delays until the car behind him starts honking, then he mechanically turns in the direction of Chris’ apartment.

The true effect of Ed’s medication doesn’t become apparent until he steps out of the car. Roy immediately puts an arm around his shoulder, not so much for support, but to keep him from wavering and attracting attention.

Thankfully, he manages to usher them into the elevator and up to the apartment without encountering anyone in the halls. After locking the door, he breathes a sigh of relief, even though there’s nothing good waiting for him beyond this small victory.

Ed immediately kicks off his shoes and almost trips in the process. Then he pulls off his coat, misses the hook, and decides to leave it lying on the floor anyway.

Without saying a word, he begins walking in the direction of the crib.

Roy freezes in panic when he realizes that Ed is actually going for the baby. He watches on high alert as Ed reaches down to pick her up and fold her in his arms. Then he takes a seat on the couch, staring intently at her restless face.

It’s not long before she wakes up and lets out a tired cry. Ed hushes her, but to no avail. She continues squirming in his embrace, her sobs growing louder and sharper.

“Ed, she was sleeping, let her be.”

“She’s fine, she’ll calm down in a minute.”

She doesn’t calm down. Her heart-wrenching wails consume the entire room. Ed continues hushing her, his voice growing increasingly frantic.

Roy feels obligated to take her away. She’s not a stuffed animal. Ed can’t just cling to her like a doll.

She’s a human being, and is obviously terrified and confused by what’s happening.

All of a sudden, Roy’s limbs go numb as he realizes something that should have been so obvious.

Ed wants to keep her.

No, that can’t happen. Even if Ed wants her, he must know that it’s not a possibility. He may be impulsive and occasionally short-sighted, but he’s rational enough to understand that she can never be theirs.

Chris has already decided to give her up for adoption if her mother doesn’t return by the end of the month, and the two of them certainly aren’t going to be her parents.

Even if they weren’t currently going through one of the most stressful and volatile periods of their lives, even if Ed was older, even if the legal system allowed it, even if all other barriers were removed, it still wouldn’t happen.

Because Roy can never raise an Ishvalan child.

He could never be a father to the little girl in Ed’s arms. To give her his time, energy, and love only for her to grow up and discover what he did to her people. To detest him and cut him from her life.

He’s sure there are stronger, better people who could undertake such an honorable charge. To give all your love to a child knowing full well that they will disown you in adulthood.

But he’s not that selfless. He’s not that strong.

But then again, wouldn’t any child grow up to resent him?

After all, if he accomplishes his goals and makes this country better, then history will not reflect kindly on him, and that’s as it should be. Every child in the next generation should find him abhorrent. If they view him as a hero rather than a villain, then he’ll have failed.

He can survive that. That’s part of his debt. But he can’t survive the hatred of his own children. He can’t.

But Ed wants her. And if he can’t have her, he’ll want another. Maybe not now, but someday.

Why did they never talk about this? They sacrificed everything in outing themselves and never had one goddamn conversation about children? How could they be so fucking stupid?

The baby is still crying. Ed is too. He’s not even rocking her anymore. He’s just clutching her against his chest and slowly swaying in time with her sobs.

There’s still so much he needs to do.

He needs to call Plannck. Explain why they didn’t show up, make up some excuse, reschedule the appointment. He still needs to hire a lawyer. He needs to sort this mess out. He needs to pull them through to the other side.

Just survive the rest of the week, then deal with the aftermath.

Instead of going to the phone, he heads into the bedroom and shuts the door harder than necessary. His feet carry him to the small trunk in the corner that contains his most precious childhood possessions.

He lifts the lid, and sitting on the very top of the pile of toys, books, and drawings is Eyu.

His fur has been worn to bald threads with only tufts of green fluff remaining on his patchy body. His button eyes have been resewn at least three times. There’s a burn mark on his tail from where Roy accidentally pressed him against the stove.

But he’s still in one piece. He’s still whole and perfect. He’s survived the years in better condition than Roy himself.

Eyu is just the Xingese word for crocodile.

There are no crocodiles in Amestris. He’s only seen them in pictures.

He found Eyu at a Xingese market when he was four or five. He remembers wandering off in the direction of a stall brimming with colorful toys and trinkets that seemed to beckon him like the smell of caramel.

The man at the stall began talking to him, bent over the edge with a big smile on his face. When Roy didn’t respond, the man probably just assumed that he was shy, not that he didn’t know a single word of Xingese.

_Eyu. Eyu._

He remembers the man holding the stuffed crocodile in his eye line, singing the animal’s name while nuzzling Roy with its snout.

His memory is blank after that. He can’t remember if Chris showed up and bought it for him, or if the man just gave it to him.

Sinking to his knees on the hardwood floor, he clutches Eyu tight against his chest. The tears finally break and stream down his face, pittering against Eyu’s fur. The tangled mess festering in his body seems to pulse and constrict, driving clipped whines from his mouth. Poor Eyu's stuffing must be moldy from absorbing thirty years worth of tears.

The baby’s cries are still hammering against the door, but at least it sounds like Chris is awake and is trying to talk Ed down from whatever state he’s in.

Roy can’t move from the floor. He’s trapped. He can’t retreat into the safety of his own thoughts or escape into the outside world. Both are on the verge of tearing him apart.

He’s a ghost again. Lingering inside his lifeless body, waiting for his final burial. Completely alone except for the bundle of fabric, thread, and stuffing clutched in his arms.

Something is going to end very soon. And he doesn’t know if he’s hurdling towards another rebirth, or if the lid of the casket is finally falling shut.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this is definitely going to be the longest chapter
> 
>  
> 
> [ twitter](https://twitter.com/blissymbolics1)


	12. Don't Think About the Future

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to leave you for so long. My semester just ended and I'm eager to get back in the swing of things!

He should have known they would put him in the interrogation room. Of course Plannck gave a half-assed apology and said it was just practical; the recording equipment was already set up in here. Ed didn’t protest. He just said it was fine and took his seat at the metal table in the center of the room.

At least the walls are painted. No exposed stone or mortar. But the color is a dull, off-putting grey, evoking the sensation of being trapped in a metal box.

“I’ll be back in just a minute,” Plannck said before shutting the door and locking him in this claustrophobic echo chamber. It’s no surprise that Plannck decided to leave. It’s standard interrogation protocol. Leave the suspect alone for a while to stew in his own anxiety. Let his imagination twist itself in knots with no source of distraction.

And he hates that it’s working.

There’s a clock on the wall that reads 6:43. It’s dinnertime and he’s starving, but he refused to eat anything out of fear that he might be sick.

Roy managed to reschedule the interrogation for the very next evening, dropping the excuse that they had to stay home to look after Trysta. Ed wanted to ask if they could delay the appointment a while longer, but he restrained himself from asking. He knows how badly Roy wants to get this over with, and Ed does too, even though he’s fighting against the temptation to call it off.

He just needs to pull himself together. Filter everything out, focus on what needs to happen. He does feel slightly better after sleeping all day yesterday and most of today, but he’s still on the verge of hyperventilation and the smell of his sweat is probably saturating the room.

He’s been alone in here for almost ten minutes now. How much longer are they going to drag this out? How many people are currently watching him through the oneway mirror? How many members of the senior staff are staring at him, analyzing every twitch and shudder, scanning for weaknesses that they can pick apart like vultures?

Just get through it. Just say that there was nothing going on back then. There’s no fucking way they can take Roy to court for this. It’d be fucking stupid to try to prosecute him for sexual abuse with his only theoretical victim standing at his defense. It’d be stupid. So fucking stupid.

He jolts when the door finally opens and Plannck casually strolls in with a folder in his hand.

“Sorry that took so long. One of the wheels on this damn machine was all out of sorts.”

Machine? Suddenly he catches sight of a young man with bright red hair turning the corner and pushing a large machine through the doorway, it’s construction a cross between a radio transmitter and a vital signs monitor. The wheels screech as he tries to steer it through the frame of the door. It’s metal body lunging with ungainly weight as if it had a mind of its own.

“What’s that for?” Ed asks, its mere presence fueling adrenaline into his bloodstream.

“It’s this new contraption our department has been experimenting with lately. In theory, it’s supposed to read your heart rate and blood pressure to help determine whether or not you're lying.”

While he’s talking, the younger man begins setting up the machine; plugging the power cord into the wall and arranging a long roll of paper spun around a metal cylinder.

“It’s still in the early stages of development, and obviously the readouts aren’t sophisticated enough to be used as evidence, so we’re trying to troubleshoot it as much as we can. Would you mind being a guinea pig? We won’t use it without your consent of course.”

It’s pretty shitty to ask for consent after already plugging in the fucking machine.

He has to say yes. Of course he fucking has to. They’ll eat him and Roy alive if he refuses.

“Yeah, sure, that’s fine,” he replies, wiping the sweat on his palms against his thighs.

Fuck, he’s maybe twenty words away from a panic attack. His brain feels like toxic pond scum, festering with bacteria eating away at his neural network. He’s fighting off apocalyptic thoughts that grow back stronger with every hack. It feels like he’s hiding under his bed while a murderer slowly paces around the room.

The machine will pick up all of that, even if it isn’t advanced enough to definitively tell whether or not he’s lying. It’ll measure his vitals and spit out readings that will spell out the betrayal of his body. That he’s balancing on the edge of breaking, trying to constrain the cracks in the glass enclosure holding him in one piece.

Fuck, he’s been interrogated so many times before, but it was never anymore stressful than elevator smalltalk. What the fuck happened to him? Aren’t you supposed to get stronger with adulthood? Instead his fears have multiplied tenfold and mutated to the point where digging for his true identity feels like cutting away vines that grow back the second they’re cut.

“I really am sorry about all of this. I know it’s a nuisance,” Plannck says as he takes a seat across from him. Then the other man walks up holding a pressure cuff. Ed begrudgingly raises his arm, but to his surprise the man wraps it around his wrist instead of his upper arm.

The hospital associations really aren’t helping. He’s trying to discreetly maintain the breathing patterns Roy showed him ages ago, but his body still feels starved for oxygen. Like he’s already soaked up all the air in the room and all that’s left is the carbon dioxide from his lungs.

“Do you have anything else planned for tonight?” Plannck asks, the casualness of his tone offset by the overwhelming discomfort of the situation. Doctors and nurses do this all the time to distract their patients. Ed can’t count the number of times a doctor has asked him about his hobbies or good books he’s read whilst putting him under anesthesia.

“No, not really.” He gulps as the other man continues fiddling with the machine. “Just gonna go home. Like every other night.”

“Roy mentioned that you were helping look after a baby.”

“Yeah, she’s six weeks old.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful. It’s a rough time though. Once they learn how to cry properly they sure do like to take advantage of it.”

“Yeah.” He forces a ghost of a smile.

“Sorry, I have to put these on your chest,” the younger man says somewhat sheepishly as he holds up three suction cups attached to various wires. Ed’s vision wavers for a second as his mind screams out against the thought of this stranger touching his skin.

“Yeah, okay.” With shaking fingers he reaches to undo the top button of his shirt, then slowly moves down rung by rung, waiting for his cue to stop.

“That’s enough,” the man says after Ed frees the third button. Then he steps forward to press the suction cups against his dilapidated muscle tissue and Ed instinctively closes his eyes as if his blood were being drawn.

“Well, with any luck we’ll be out of here soon and we can all get back to the children waiting for us. Officer, how old is your boy now?”

“Almost three, sir.”

“Then let’s make sure you get home before his bedtime.”

The man nods as he reaches for another pressure cuff, and this one he does wrap tight around Ed’s upper arm. Then he walks over to flick a switch on the machine, evoking a cacophony of whirring and grinding that ricochets off the empty walls.

Concentrate. Focus. Breathe. Pretend this is a battle. Pretend that you’re bleeding out and can’t stop moving because stopping means death.

What the fuck? Stop, that’s a fucking terrible comparison. Why is he trying to convince himself that this is a life or death situation? It’s not. Objectively, it’s not. Envision the worst case scenario. His physiology will fuck him over and make every word he says look like fabricated garbage. The technology may be too young to be used against him in court, but that doesn’t mean they won’t exploit it in other ways. Leak the tape in combination with the readings. Take pictures of him through the mirror. Show the world how he’s collapsing in on himself, breaking apart at the seams and fighting back tears while pitifully denying that he was molested as a child. No one will believe him after that. No one.

“Sir, something’s wrong,” the man says, staring at the readings churning out on the roll of paper.

“Is that damn machine on the fritz again?”

“I don’t think so,” he says softly while turning in Ed’s direction.

He wants to tear all his hair out. He wants to grab a pick axe and claw his way out of his own head. Transfer his soul to another body. One with a functioning endocrine system and a brain that isn’t trying to cannibalize itself.

Stop shaking. Stop fucking shaking.

The corners of his vision start to go black as he tries to bring in air, but it’s a pathetic stream compared to what his body is demanding. He’s dangerously close to passing out. It feels like he’s in a dream, running through mud as an enemy draws closer, his steps sinking deeper the faster he tries to run.

“Are you okay?” the man turns off the machine, sending the room into silence punctuated by Ed’s breathing. “Would you like some water?” he asks, and Ed nods his head desperately. “Okay, I’ll be right back.”

Now that he thinks about it, it’s kind of fucked up that they didn’t provide him with water in the first place.

The man turns his back and walks out of the room, leaving him and Plannck alone in what is starting to feel more and more like a prison cell.

Don’t think about the future. Not even in the abstract. Don’t think about the present either, or the past. Don’t think about anything or anyone. Don’t think about a single fucking thing.

“Do you want to put your head between your knees? It might help.”

“No, I’m okay.” He really wants to, but some shred of dignity is holding him back.

Finally the door swings open and the man returns with a tall glass of water. Ed quickly reaches for it and swallows back several gulps.

“Are you really nervous?” the man asks. Again, Ed just nods his head. “It’s okay. There’s nothing to be worried about. Just tell the truth and everything will be fine.”

Just tell the truth. Like anyone will fucking believe him.

“Maybe we should reschedule,” Plannck says.

“No, I’m fine,” Ed quickly replies. Rescheduling means repeating this all over again. “It’s just, I don’t think this’ll work on me.” He glances over at the machine. “I have this issue. This anxiety disorder. I’m afraid it’ll make everything I say seem like a lie.”

Fuck, he shouldn’t have said that. He doesn’t have an official diagnosis. If they ask for proof, he won’t be able to give any.

“Do you take medication for it?” Plannck asks, catching him off guard.

“Yeah.”

“Recently?”

“Every day.”

“Alright, then we’re not going to use this,” Plannck says firmly, and no more than a second later, the younger man is reaching down to remove the cuff from his wrist. “Pharmaceuticals can impact your blood pressure and other physiological responses that can skew the results.”

“Um, okay,” Ed replies, in complete disbelief that Plannck is willing to let him off the hook so easy.

“You can take those off yourself,” the man above him says. Ed stares up at him in confusion, then realizes that he’s referring to the suction cups on his chest, so he quickly reaches up to pry them off.

“I’m sorry,” he says to Plannck as he pulls them off and places them on the table.

“No, it’s alright, we can all get out of here a lot faster now,” Plannck responds with forced cheeriness. “I can cross off some of these questions now. For the machine to work properly we have to ask a number of simple questions to establish baseline readings. Where were you born? How old are you? Things of that nature. Besides, this probably isn’t the ideal time to workshop this contraption anyway since I expect this interview to be very short.”

Ed takes a few more sips of water, trying to regain his composure as Plannck crosses through some questions and the other man unplugs the machine.

He’ll be fine. He made it past the crest of his attack in one piece. It feels like his hormones are settling at their default levels, spent from the exertion.

The room feels steadier now that it’s out of his system. It’s rare for his attacks to recede so quickly, but the feeling of numb emptiness is as good as any high.

“I tried putting together a case file,” Plannck says, indicating the thin folder in front of him, “but as you can see, it’s woefully empty. You never lodged any harassment complaints against Mustang, and neither have any of his subordinates or superiors. He has no history of domestic abuse or sexual assault, nothing that would indicate a preference for minors. There’s also no evidence that the two of you socialized beyond work-related matters. So, given the utter dearth of evidence, my questions are quite sparse. Really the only way to turn this into a case would be if you accused him of wrongdoing and offered to testify against him, and for some reason, I don’t anticipate that happening.”

Ed lets out a small laugh, still hesitant to give himself over to Plannck’s practiced bedside manner. It’s impossible to shake the fear that he’s showering him with assurances to lure him into a false sense of security.

“I’m sure all of this is old hat to you. You certainly gave plenty of witness statements during your time in the military. But if you have any questions, or would like further clarification, don’t hesitate to ask.”

“Okay.” Ed nods.

He just has to power through his anxiety and get through this. Roy assured him that Plannck could be trusted. That he has no personal grudges or history of abusing his power. Ed can only hope that Roy wasn’t lying. But why would he? If Roy genuinely distrusted Plannck, then there’s no way he’d let Ed go through with this.

“How about we start simple. Can you tell me how you and General Mustang first met?”

Good, that’s simple. There’s no way he can screw this up.

“We first met in the summer of 1910. It was June, I think. Maybe early July. I was eleven and my brother was ten. Mustang came out to our hometown out east because he heard a rumor that there was a gifted alchemist living in the area, but instead he found us.”

Plannck smiles as he looks down to scribble something out on his notepad.

“So, um… he was only there for a few hours, but he said that if I wanted to take the state alchemist exam, he’d sponsor me. I think he expected me to wait at least a couple years, but I went out to take it pretty much as soon as I could walk again. About a year later.”

“And how did you like being his subordinate?”

He has to get the phrasing just right. He needs to be careful. One wrong word could ruin them.

“It was fine. We really didn’t see much of each other. I only went to his office whenever I had to turn in a report or get a new assignment, and a few other times for housekeeping things. My brother was usually with us. Besides that… I called every now and then out on the road to keep him updated, but besides that, we weren’t exactly chummy.”

There, that was the hardest part. Everything he just said is truthful. He doesn’t need to lie. He has to keep reminding himself that he doesn’t need to lie.

“And what about after you left the military?”

“We fell out of touch for a while. I went back to my hometown for two years and he went out east to Ishval. We didn’t even write each other. I got back in touch with him after I got back from a research trip in Creta November of last year – no, the year before that, – sorry.”

“Time does start to blur as you get older. I’m sure you’ve noticed that it’s been speeding up.”

“Yeah, not a fan,” he remarks dryly, and they share a stunted laugh. “But anyway, we got along well, but things were really crazy around then politically, so we really didn’t start dating until February last year. And I only moved in with him because there’s not a pocket of affordable housing left in Central. I planned on moving out at some point, but things just worked, so I stayed.”

There. That’s everything. Roy said the rest of the questions should be easier. More straightforward questions regarding specific details. Empty queries designed to fill out the time. He’ll be fine. After all, the senior staff already got what they wanted. If their goal in all of this was to drag him over the coals and put him through hell in order to fast track Roy’s resignation, then they’ve certainly earned their victory and then some.

“Your mother passed away in 1904, right? So where were you and your brother living?”

“Alone in our old house, mostly. But our neighbors were family friends, so they took care of us.”

“And did General Mustang travel to your hometown alone?”

“No, Captain Hawkeye was with him.”

“Hm,” Plannck hums and nods. “June, 1910. That was shortly after you lost your arm and leg, right?”

The casual trill in his tone is almost satirical given the question.

It’s no secret to anyone in Amestris that he originally entered the military with an automail arm and leg. Everyone saw it in pictures, many in person. And yet it was common knowledge that after the Promised Day he started walking around with a fully restored flesh arm and a formerly seven-foot-tall brother who suddenly looked like a famine victim.

No one ever outright asked them about their transformations. It was already obvious. Hundreds of soldiers watched him regain an arm and transmute his brother out of the void. They undoubtedly told everyone they knew, and like a pyramid scheme, it spread to every corner of Amestris and probably beyond.

Still, he can't deny how otherworldly it is for Plannck to ask him about his missing arm while his hand is sitting in plain view.

“Yeah, he came by just a few weeks later,” he answers.

Plannck glances down at his notes, quiet for a few very uncomfortable seconds.

“Can you tell me how you lost your arm and leg?”

That question, as simple as it is, makes him feel as though someone just walked over his grave.

How is that even relevant? To anything? Besides, Plannck must already know the answer.

Obviously he can’t lie since that would qualify as perjury, but years of trained defensiveness suddenly rise from the past to seal his lips tight.

“Doesn’t everyone know that by now,” he replies with a strained laugh. “You know, right?” he turns and asks the man standing against the wall, catching him off guard.

“Yes,” he responds, his eyes flicking nervously between him and Plannck.

“Yes, of course we all know how it happened, but I’m afraid I have to ask.”

Ed waits for him to elaborate why, but after a few seconds of tense silence, it becomes clear that he won’t.

“Fine. I tried committing human transmutation. Emphasis on the ‘tried.’ The rebound was brutal and I lost two limbs and my brother lost his whole body. There. We can officially put it in the history books now.”

A wash of regret floods through him before he even finishes speaking. Of course it would be useless trying to lie. How else could he explain away magically regaining an arm? But for some reason, speaking the truth aloud, on tape, it just feels wrong.

“And did you tell General Mustang about your human transmutation attempt when he visited you?”

“No, he figured it out on his own.”

“So he was aware of your attempt when he recruited you to the military?”

Ed’s heart catches on something sharp. The alarms in his head blare loud enough to obstruct his hearing. Don’t answer, he tells himself. Don’t fucking answer.

“Yes,” he all but whispers, the word leaving his mouth before his rationality can stop it.

“And did he state or imply that he was willing to keep your attempt a secret so that you could become a state alchemist?”

No. He can’t answer that; but he can’t perjure himself either.

Just end this now. Tell him you’d like to stop. But what good will that do when they already have enough evidence to subpoena his testimony anyway? His heart is racing, a million variables intersecting and dissolving amidst the noise. Don’t answer. Don’t answer.

“Yes.” The single syllable catches in his throat. A fatal mistake encapsulated in little more than a breath of air.

“And did he keep your attempt a secret throughout your time in the military?”

It’s over. He failed. He played his hand and lost the game not even aware that there were any chips stacked on the table.

“I’d like to stop now.”

The fire inside his head is roaring back to life, consuming his entire world and filling his lungs with smoke.

“Alright,” Plannck replies passively, shutting the folder in front of him. “Thank you for coming in. Officer, would you escort Edward and General Mustang out?”

“Yes, sir.”

Ed’s not sure why he feels an overwhelming sense of betrayal from a man he met hardly half an hour ago. But of course this was the plan he had in the cards all along. Even as a child Ed was smart enough to know never to trust an interrogator under any circumstances, or the military as a whole for that matter. How could he let himself fall into the same trap as everyone else? How could he be so fucking stupid?

It’s all his fault. He ruined them both. Two questions, and he destroyed their lives.

In a daze he follows the man down the hall to the break room where Roy is waiting. Roy smiles when he walks in, but quickly retracts it when he sees his face.

“Did everything go okay?” he asks, like a loved one trying to casually ask about the results of a surgery.

“Yeah, it was fine. Let’s just go.”

“Okay,” Roy replies gently, then stands up to shrug on his coat.

He feels like he was just diagnosed with a terminal illness. His mind and body are operating on two separate planes, communication held in place by a thin wire. He’s trapped somewhere in the confines of his skull, being bent and twisted into something unrecognizable. A new identify composed entirely of fear and regret without a scrap of positive emotion left in the chaos.

“I’ll lead you out,” the man says, and they silently follow him down the corridor leading to the maintenance staircase: a concrete shaft with a wide gap in the middle. It’s only three flights down, but Ed can’t help but wonder if the fall would be traumatic enough to kill him.

He dwells on the thought even as his feet obediently carry him down to the ground floor, and he can’t stop thinking about it even as Roy reaches forward to push the door open.

“Wait,” the man calls out.

No. They were so close. Just a few more steps and they would have made it.

It’s no use though. The military police are probably waiting outside with their guns held high, ready to put them in restraints the second they emerge.

“I wanted to apologize. To the both of you.”

Ed steadies himself against the wall as he turns to look back at the man, certain that he’s going to apologize for what’s waiting for them outside. It doesn’t matter what he says though. It won’t change anything. It won’t mend or heal a single goddamn thing.

“None of this would have happened if I hadn’t picked that hair off your uniform. Even if it was Captain Hawkeye’s, it was still uncalled for to expose you like that. I just wanted to impress Colonel Plannck. I’m sorry.”

It was him. He’s the one who started all of this. He’s the one who signed their death warrants.

Ed knows that it’s illogical to put that type of blame on this man. You can’t fault the mountain climber who shifts the rock that starts the avalanche. But still, he wishes more than anything that this man never came into work that day. That someone shot him down the street, or slammed his car into a brick wall, some snag in the timeline that would have removed him as a variable. If the worst happens, then this man will be responsible, and Ed wants him to boil in that guilt until he fucking dies.

“It’s alright,” Roy replies cooly. “It had to happen eventually.” With that, he pushes the door open and leads them out into the empty parking lot.

There’s no one waiting for them.

It’s dark. The sun was setting when they first entered the building. The air is cold, but the shelter of the car brings no relief.

He should be panicking. He should be in a state of mania. He needs to tell Roy everything. Tell him that they have to get out now. The senior staff are going to come after them. It’s not an abstract worry anymore. It’s not just their reputations on the line, but their very lives.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

He should have refused to answer Plannck’s questions. At least that would have bought them enough time to get out of the country before Investigations could drag them back in for questioning. They could have fled Central tonight, driven east, assembled enough supplies to start crossing the desert to Xing.

No, it’s not over. That’s still an option. There’s still time. Grab what they can, cram it in the car, and drive without sleep.

Their entire lives. They’ll have to leave everything behind. They can’t even stop at their real house. The generals are probably planning to stage a raid tonight, if they’re not already waiting there. What they brought with them to Chris’ place is all they have left.

One small word. Yes. And he razed everything to ash.

He needs to tell Roy. He needs to. But once he does, that will be the end of it.

Roy will never forgive him. He wasted everything that Roy has scarified. He's a waste. He’s a waste of skin and air, matter and sound. Roy’s life would have been so much better without him. That’s not even speculation. It’s objective analysis.

“Ed, I’m on the verge of crashing, please tell me what happened.”

Ed finally raises his eyes to see Roy clutching the steering wheel with his back ramrod straight, staring ahead like an animal in headlights.

Tell him. Tell him. Tell him so he can save himself and give you what you deserve.

“I’ll tell you when we get back,” he answers softly, tears welling in his eyes.

They have to leave tonight. That’s their only hope of survival. Grab what they can and leave.

But what about Trysta?

What about her? Why is she even on his mind? She’s just a baby he’s been looking after for little more than a week. Of course they can’t take her with them. There’s no way she would survive the journey.

He shouldn’t be sparing a single thought for her. He should be rationalizing how much water they need to bring, food they need to pack, calculating the best route to get them across the desert alive. There’s obviously not enough time to write Al or Ling and tell them to send a guide. They’re in this on their own.

He’ll never see Trysta again. He’ll never see anyone again. Not unless they travel out to Xing. Maybe Winry can occasionally, but Pinako is far too old. And it’s not just the people. This entire country. This stupid fucked up country that doesn’t want them anymore. They’ll never be free to set foot on this soil again. It’ll exist only in his memories, and he’ll have to cling to them with all the urgency of remembering his mother’s face.

And that’s all assuming they even make it to the border. They could arrest them tonight, apprehend them on the road, have them behind bars by morning. Roy might be released eventually, but human transmutation is punishable by death. If the worst happens, he hopes they’ll give him the mercy of execution rather than life imprisonment. Decades upon decades curled on the concrete floor of a cell, cold and isolated, never touching another person’s skin again, trapped inside the torture chamber of his own mind with no distraction.

Agony. Abject agony. A life stripped down to nothing as he devolves into a broken twisted gash of metal searching for suicide in every piece of glass and string.

Maybe he should just walk up to the roof of the apartment building. Walk up to that empty flat plane floating above the skyline. Accept that his life has reached its natural conclusion and the only way to maintain autonomy of his story is to end it on his own terms.

Before Roy even finishes parking the car, Ed dashes out and runs to the adjacent alleyway to crouch behind some trashcans to throw up.

He’s barely eaten over the last couple days, but his stomach still churns and cramps with burning acid. He gasps in air through the dry heaves, tears streaming down his face.

Roy darts up behind him not more than a minute later, crouching low and placing a hand on his back.

This can’t be happening. This can’t actually be happening. Mental illness is supposed to be an illusion. It’s your brain telling you that the worst case scenario is the only logical outcome. But it’s not supposed to actually come true. Terrible things can’t just keep happening to him.

“Let’s get you inside” Roy says gently as Ed wipes his mouth against his sleeve.

One hand on the brick, the other on Roy, he manages to get to his feet; dizzy, his mouth still tasting of sick.

Roy leads them to the loading dock on the side of the building that they discovered to be a more discreet entrance. The backdoor leads them into the staircase that everyone in the building is too rich to actually use. Chris’ apartment is only five floors up, but he’s wheezing by the time they make it.

Roy twists the knob and holds the door open for him.

This is it. He has to tell him. They don’t have any time to spare. They need to leave. Run until the world falls out from under them.

After walking through the threshold, he freezes when he sees an unknown woman sitting on the couch next to Chris. Young and pale with dirty blonde hair flowing around her shoulders. And in her arms she’s cradling Trysta, who is reaching up with her tiny hands to clumsily swat at the hair dangling above her face.

“What’s going on?” he asks, even though it’s hardly difficult to intuit what’s happening.

“Ed, hey, this is Margery. Trysta’s mom.”

There’s nothing joyful in Chris’ tone. No twinge of happiness. She sounds like she’s telling a child that his cat ran away and is nervous how he’ll react.

Roy reaches forward to put a hand on his shoulder, in an attempt to comfort or restrain him, he can’t tell.

After a spell of awkward silence, Chris speaks up again.

“I was just telling her how helpful you’ve been with taking care of Trysta this past week.”

“Yes, thank you. Really, let me know if there’s anything I can do to repay you. I’m so glad she was getting lots of attention while I was away.”

While she was away. As if she was out of town visiting a friend.

No, it’s too late for her to walk in as if nothing happened. She abandoned her child for an entire month. There’s no coming back from that. He doesn’t care what personal shit she was dealing with. Everyone has trauma, everyone’s fucked up. If every other parent has to struggle through it, then so does she.

She revoked her right to motherhood weeks ago, and it’s fucking tearing him apart that Trysta isn’t screaming in her arms.

“Are you taking her somewhere?” he asks, catching sight of the suitcase at her feet.

Of course she is. It’s a stupid fucking question.

“Um, yeah, just up to my parents’ place in the suburbs. We’ll be staying with them for a while. At least until this one gets a bit bigger,” she says while glancing down to tap Trysta’s nose. Her face is almost glowing, and there’s a large dimple denting her cheek.

He’s never in his life felt the urge to slap someone so badly. And honestly, she deserves it, and far worse.

She doesn’t deserve to be a mother, and it makes him so fucking angry that Trysta will probably grow up completely unaware that the one person who was supposed to protect her decided to abandon her during her most vulnerable stage of life.

Up until he spoke the word ‘yes' in the interrogation, he envisioned her as part of his future. As hard as he tried to suppress it, he couldn’t help but imagine what she might look like months or years down the line. He wanted to be there when she started laughing. To hear her first garbled words, to help her stand and walk. He wanted to hold her until she was too big to fit in his arms.

None of that matters though.

Maybe it’s better this way. Now he can say goodbye knowing that he’s leaving behind one more fantasy that was never meant to be.

She’s not his. She never was, and she never will be.

Everyone seems to be staring at him, waiting for him to react. There’s no time for that though. There’s no time for any of this. So instead he shakes Roy’s hand off his shoulder and walks in the direction of their bedroom. After slamming the door hard, he reaches for his suitcase.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally made it to the second act twist!
> 
>  
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> [ twitter](https://twitter.com/blissymbolics1)


	13. We're Going to Be Okay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys. I'm uploading this from the hospital where I've been for the last three days so please be gentle with me. But hey, the good news is this is the end of the second act low point. And the next chapter is just going to be Roy and Ed straight up talking for 5k+.

After a moment of acclimation, Roy follows Ed into the bedroom right on his heels, only to watch him lung straight for his suitcase. Before Roy can get a word in, Ed snaps it open and starts shoving in clothes from their hamper. His pitch is sharp and panicked as he begins recounting what happened during the interrogation, simultaneously darting around the small room and grabbing whatever his hands touch, packing it all together without discrimination.

Roy grits his teeth. Of course something like this would happen. Roy mentally kicks himself for being so stupid. This is exactly the type of dirty trick he should have expected from the senior staff.

But all of his anger immediately falls to the wayside once Ed starts frantically talking about leaving the country. Driving to the eastern border and fleeing to Xing. Tonight. Across the desert.

From that point on, Roy can’t spare a single thought for the potential consequences of the interrogation. All he can focus on is trying to talk Ed down from the state of paranoia eating him raw.

How many leaps did Ed have to make to reach the conclusion that permanent banishment is their only viable option? Was the interview really that terrible? Does he genuinely believe that they’re going to be imprisoned or executed?

As Ed attempts to cram reams upon reams of notes into his suitcase, Roy tries to reassure him that they don’t need to leave the country. They don’t need to go anywhere. This is just a power play. The senior staff were bred in an environment where they could get anything they wanted through these kinds of strong-arm intimidation tactics, but that doesn’t mean that they have any intention of actually following through.

Roy tries to remind Ed of all the similar situations they’ve dealt with. Back when Bradley was still in power and constantly had a sword dangling over their heads. This is just petty politics by comparison. Besides, Eckert is on their side. Even if the senior staff made the disastrous mistake of trying to prosecute them for well-known crimes, Eckert would almost assuredly grant them pardons.

But none of his assurances have any effect. As the minutes drag on it becomes increasingly clear that Ed is buried so deep inside his own head that breaking free would be just as feasible as tearing through a pair of handcuffs.

Before Roy knows it, Ed is tugging on his hand and shouting that they have to leave right now. He says it doesn’t matter what the odds are, even if their chance of execution is less than one percent, it’s not worth the gamble. No amount of uncertainty is worth the potential price. Through his frustrated cries he’s lacing in half-intelligible apologies. Apologies that Roy might never see Chris again, apologies for dragging him down in all of this, for falling apart in the interview, ruining his career, destroying his life, all strung together with intermittent declarations of how stupid he is. Assurances that if Roy wanted to leave him, he’d deserve it, and far worse.

Roy is at a loss for how to respond. It’s clear that this isn’t a normal attack. Even on Ed’s worst days, he was always able to retain some degree of self-awareness. Even if it was a small and fabricated strand, he could at least tell himself that his thoughts were not accurate reflections of reality. Similar to how a child can logically understand that monsters don’t exist, but that rationalization alone can’t resolve his fear of the dark.

Although, that may be a poor analogy, as he and Ed both know that monsters are indeed very real.

With a frustrated grunt, Ed releases his hand and storms out into the living room with both their suitcases in tow. Roy follows him on autopilot, noting that Chris and the young mother are nowhere in sight. Either they left the apartment or are hiding in Chris’ bedroom.

 _Just calm him down,_ Roy chants to himself as he watches Ed violently pull on his shoes. There must be some magic words that can penetrate the lead encapsulating his brain. But every word seems to die as a pitiful half-sound before it leaves his mouth. All he can do is shove on his own shoes and follow Ed out the door.

At least Ed won’t be able to get very far without him since he can’t drive, and he’s clearly far too paranoid to take the train or hitchhike. Besides, what is he rationally planning to do? Just walk out into the desert and keep moving until he reaches Xing? He’ll die. Without question.

What if Roy can’t calm him down? How will he respond when Roy refuses to carry out what he asks? What if he threatens to hurt himself, or actually does?

Now it’s Roy’s turn to get lost in hypotheticals.

Still, he follows Ed as he runs down the stairwell, turning corners so fast that Roy’s breath hitches on every flight. He darts after Ed as he pushes through the door that leads out onto the loading dock, trailing him as he walks in the direction of the car, moving so fast it’s hard to believe he’s carrying two heavy suitcases.

Sensing Ed’s distress at being out in the open, Roy obediently unlocks the car, but offers no help as Ed throws their bags into the backseat before climbing into the passenger side.

Roy is desperately trying to come up with something, anything that will act as an emergency brake. But what can he say that hasn’t already been said? In Ed’s mind, there are only two options: flee to Xing, or stay here and die. What words can Roy possibly pull out of the ether that will dissuade him from those convictions?

“Please, start the car,” Ed pleads at his side, his voice piercing Roy like the sudden stab of a splinter. God, his expression is heartbreaking: frustration, fear, despondency, wave after wave of misery tearing him apart like jagged teeth.

Internally, Ed is probably grappling with the prospect of leaving Amestris and never coming back. Saying goodbye to his home, his family, everything that’s familiar. Everything except for the clothes and crumpled papers he packed in the suitcase lying in the backseat.

He’s suffocating; he’s in pain; and Roy needs to help him. That should be his only priority. Ed is in pain, and Roy needs to make it go away.

“I want to take you to Dr. Knox’s house,” Roy says gently, but firmly, making it clear that it’s not a suggestion. “No one will think to look for us there. And we can trust him to keep us hidden.”

Unrestrained panic spreads across Ed’s face like a brush of wildfire. Roy has to measure his words carefully, put himself in Ed’s shoes, understand that from his perspective, every second of delay could be the tipping point between life and death.

“Ed, please trust me. We’re not in any danger. What happened in the interrogation, it’s stressful. It’s awful and manipulative, but it’s normal. It’s not the end of us. Not by a long mile. Please believe me, if we were in any real danger, I would do everything necessary to protect us. If we really needed to leave the country, I’d be right there alongside you. But we don’t. We don’t have to go anywhere. Please, trust me.”

Roy reaches out to grasp his hand, which is trembling violently.

“I want to ask Dr. Knox to give you something that will help you come down from this.”

Roy keeps a firm grip on his hand, terrified that he might try to run away.

But what can he in good conscience do if Ed refuses? Roy could never force something like that on him. The thought of taking him to the hospital did briefly cross his mind, but he shot the idea down immediately. Ed would never forgive him for such a betrayal.

But if he refuses help from Dr. Knox, then what options does Roy have left? He can’t let Ed go off alone in such a state, but he can’t chaperone him to the desert and enable this… whatever this is.

He can only hope that Ed is cogent enough to understand that Roy will always have his best interest at heart. That Ed can summon enough trust to fight against the thoughts controlling him like an instrument. That he can at least trick himself into believing that everything will be okay. Just a small amount of self-deception, that’s all Roy is asking for.

“Okay,” Ed finally replies, nodding his head and squeezing Roy’s hand in return.

Roy breathes a sigh of relief and sends a silent word of thanks up to the stratosphere.

This is a small step. It won’t get them very far. But it’s far better than running away.

“I hate this,” Ed sobs, tears finally breaking over his cheeks. “I fucking hate this.”

“I know. But we’re going to be okay. At the end of all this, we’re going to be okay.”

With that, he turns the ignition and pulls them out into the street.

They arrive at Dr. Knox’s house shortly before eight o’clock, and as expected, he greets them with a string of curses.

Thankfully his demeanor seems to soften when he takes in Ed’s appearance: his face saturated with sweat and tears, shaking, breath heavy, overstimulated to the point where he has to shut his eyes upon entering the light of the house.

“So he’s having a panic attack, what do you want me to do about it?”

“No, it’s worse than that. It’s been this bad for over half an hour now.”

Ed offers no input. He’s probably trapped running calculations on how much time they’re losing; the minutes and seconds pulling them closer to a jail cell. He spent the entire ride over with his eyes glued to the rearview mirror, his panic spiking if a car was trailing them for more than four blocks.

“Alright, give me a second,” Knox grumbles as he heads upstairs.

Roy moves them over to the couch where they sit in silence while waiting for Knox to return. Roy wants to say something that will give Ed some comfort, but he’s too afraid that one wrong word could send him past the breaking point.

“Just a little longer,” he whispers, as if Ed were awaiting anesthesia for a broken bone.

Knox finally returns a few minutes later with a syringe and a bottle of clear liquid. Ed quickly pulls off his coat and tugs up his sleeve, eagerly presenting the veins of his inner arm. Roy can’t help but feel relief at Ed’s cooperation. He was honestly dreading the possibility that he would start protesting at the last second.

Roy helps hold his arm steady as Knox imbeds the needle beneath his skin and pushes the plunger. Within seconds his trembling seems to dissipate. The heaving of his chest grows slower, and finally his muscles unlock and start to fall slack. Roy gingerly encircles him in his arms and guides his head to rest against his shoulder, hoping that he’ll remember this warmth before he drifts off.

“Are you still awake?” he asks quietly.

“Uh-huh,” Ed murmurs.

“How are you feeling?”

“Like my brain was on fire and someone doused it with morphine.”

Roy gives a weak laugh. “Good, that’s what we want.”

Ed falls quiet after that, and once he seems completely underwater, Roy gently lays him across the couch and covers him with the nearest blanket.

“You’re really wracking up your favors here,” Knox grumbles as he prepares them coffee in the kitchen. Roy is leaning against the doorframe, constantly glancing out of the corner of his eye to make sure Ed hasn’t moved from his spot on the couch.

“Thank you. I really don’t know how to repay you for this.”

“Don’t go rambling on about your debts. I’m bored of it,” he replies with a dismissive wave. “Just tell me what’s going on with the kid.”

What’s going on with Ed? Roy really wishes he had an answer.

“He doesn’t have an official diagnosis yet. But it’s not just a result of circumstance, we know that much. He’s been struggling for over a year now.”

Knox lets out a sigh. “Well, kids can only stay elastic for so long.”

Elastic. That’s what Ed was. Back when half his limbs were made of metal. Back when he was tallying up near death experiences like scratches on a prison wall. And now he’s settling into something hard. A liquid chemical solidifying into a solid state. An irreversible reaction.

Roy hasn’t even had a chance to think about the realistic consequences of the interrogation. While he genuinely believes that they’re not in any existential danger, he may have been over-inflating his reassurances for the sake of placation.

He’ll lose his job now. That’s a guarantee. But that’s not what he’s worried about. His meeting with Eckert is tomorrow, and the brass could very well use this to sabotage any appointment Eckert intends on giving him. In fact, that might be their ultimate goal. Keep the tape as blackmail and obstruct him from reentering the government; but that’s probably the most they’re willing to use it for. If they had any real interest in bringing him and Ed to court, then they would hardly need a taped confession. Everyone in Amestris already knows about Ed’s human transmutation attempt, and by extension, anyone with half a brain could surmise that Roy knew about it from the beginning.

How many people are actually involved in this? While he tends to pigeonhole the senior staff as one homogenous hive mind, of course he understands that they’re all unique individuals with their own motives and priorities. Roy may be universally disliked among the military sympathizers, but this can’t be a large enough operation to constitute a military-wide conspiracy.

So who’s pulling the strings? Who’s handing down the decisions? He needs to uncover the person or people orchestrating all of this. Who wants him ousted so badly that they’re willing to drag Ed down with him?

 

Fortunately, he doesn’t have to wait long to receive his answer.

 

* * *

 

 

_“And did you tell General Mustang about your human transmutation attempt when he visited you?”_

_“No, he figured it out on his own.”_

_“So he was aware of your attempt when he recruited you to the military?”_

_“Yes.”_

_“And did he state or imply that he was willing to conceal your human transmutation attempt so that you could become a state alchemist?”_

_“Yes.”_

_“And did he keep your attempt a secret throughout your tenure in the military?”_

_“I’d like to stop now.”_

 

General Marchant reaches forward to pause the recording, clearly satisfied with the end result.

Roy can’t even feign surprise that Marchant is the one leading the charge on all of this. His obstinate refusal to withdraw during the election plunged him into the dregs of popularity, both among the civilian population and the military.

After the disastrous spectacle he made last year, his opponent, Hess, quietly retired in shame, electing to collect his pension and spend his twilight years cutting grass on his family’s farm. On the opposite end, Marchant dug his heels in deeper, desperate to rally enough redemption to partake in the next election cycle.

Driving Roy out of the military would be an efficient way to curry favor with his fellow generals, many of whom are currently sitting across from Roy at the long oak table. Ten individuals in all; each one carrying a long and varied history of personal contempt for Roy himself.

All except one.

At the very end of the left side of the table, farthest from the door, is Major General Armstrong, her posture and presence as resolute as ever. As soon as Roy caught sight of her, he knew he had an ally in the room.

He wouldn’t exactly call them friends. They never communicated beyond business matters; but throughout the years she never gave any indication that their mutual loyalty was in jeopardy.

Unless she takes issue with his relationship with Ed, but he can’t convince himself that that's the case. It’s a well-kept secret that Briggs is something of a safe haven for those with hidden proclivities. The trend started roughly a decade ago when the military began quietly reassigning those with unseemly personal affairs to the desolate wasteland that is the northern border as a form of punishment-cum-banishment. But once word got around, many began enlisting there voluntarily, seeking respite in that small cold world separate from the rest of society.

Armstrong is more than aware of the affairs going on at her base, and not once in her eleven-year tenure has she made any attempt to crack down on it.

She has something up her sleeve. Without question. And the look she shoots him when the tape recorder stops is assurance enough.

Marchant seems to take no notice though, clearly more than confident with his position on the chessboard.

“This is what’s going to happen,” he says firmly, but with a rasp that betrays his age. “You will be discharged on the grounds of psychological disability.”

Now that certainly catches Roy’s attention, but he keeps his look of neutral apathy in place.

“After your return from Ishval in 1908, you were hospitalized for several months after expressing severe suicidal inclinations; and according to your annual psychological evaluations, you’ve struggled with depressive tendencies ever since.”

Roy is tempted to ask if Marchant knows of a single Ishvalan veteran who can boast a clean bill of mental health, but he restrains himself. He wants to see where this goes.

“You will be discharged on the grounds that your mental state has been interfering with your ability to perform the duties required of your rank. Please understand, we are not invoking this decision to cause you embarrassment, but without a medical excuse, we cannot grant you any veteran benefits.” With that, he pushes a folder in Roy’s direction, no doubt containing his discharge paperwork neatly stamped and signed.

“After your discharge, you will receive a monthly pension for the remainder of your life. You will retain your insurance, discounted housing, and retirement benefits.”

Roy makes no move to open the folder. There’s no point. He’s simply waiting for Marchant to finish talking so he can voice his refusal.

“You may live however you see fit,” Marchant continues. “You are welcome to reenter the workforce, on the condition that you never involve yourself with any form of political activity. You will not seek election. You will not serve on the staff of any politicians. You will attend no rallies, push no agendas, you will not work in a printshop that manufactures political ephemera. It goes without saying that these same conditions apply to Mr. Elric as well.”

Roy gives no response, vocal or otherwise.

“If you follow these conditions, then the both of you may live your lives free from military intervention and harassment. Do these terms sound suitable?”

Roy takes a long look at the old man sitting across the table, and then the men spanning him on either side.

Marchant must know that he’s going to refuse. He must be anticipating it. Roy almost wants to agree to his proposal just to deprive him of the satisfaction.

“For the sake of argument, what will happen if I refuse to abide by these terms?”

“Then we will court martial Edward for his two human transmutation attempts. And you for obstruction of justice.”

There it is. The worst case scenario. But an empty threat through and through.

“You’re willing to toss the death penalty at one of the most beloved individuals in the country for the crime of being a precocious child who wanted to see his dead mother again? How well do you think that decision will be received by the public? Especially considering that there’s not a single person in Amestris who doesn’t already know how the Elric Brothers lost and regained their bodies?”

Marchant straightens his posture. It’s such an obvious question that his answer must be rehearsed.

“We are willing to grant Edward a pardon on the grounds of his age. However, we have no qualms about prosecuting you for the inexcusable offense of actively covering up his human transmutation attempt in order to recruit him to the military. That’s obstruction of justice, plain and simple, the penalty for which is five to fifteen years imprisonment.”

Marchant leans in closer, his tone level and practiced. “Edward may be beloved in the eyes of the public, but you’re delusional if you think they harbor any sympathy towards you. The average person on the street believes you recruited Edward in the interest of molesting him. When your day in court comes, some may pay lip service to your plight, but internally, they will welcome it.”

Roy tries to shrug off the sting of those words, like a young child ignoring the mockery of a bully. In fact, revisiting the lessons he learned in childhood may be useful in this situation. Why do children harass each other? Jealousy, insecurity, entitlement, they rely on intimidation to mask the fact that they have no true power over their surroundings. Marchant may have four stars pinned to his shoulder, but he clearly has a worse hand of cards than he wants Roy to think. After all, if he truly thought he could get away with indicting Roy without any form of backlash, then he would be in handcuffs by now.

“You say that you’re willing to grant Edward a pardon. What makes you think Führer Eckert won’t grant me one as well?”

Marchant lets out a dismissive laugh, but Roy swears he can detect a nervous twinge. “You really think Eckert would sacrifice his reputation, his credibility, his public image, all for you? Is that really a bet you’re willing to wager?”

“Are you?” Roy asks without hesitation.

The short silence that follows is answer enough.

Marchant’s expression grows noticeably darker, frustration rising in his voice.

“Eckert will not be in power forever. And neither shall your majority in Parliament for that matter. Politics will always swing like a pendulum. In five years time, we will have a new Führer. One not as charitable to your plight.”

“You, you mean? No offense, but given your current poll numbers, you have about as much a chance of becoming Führer as I do.”

It’s hard not to find satisfaction in the silence that sweeps the room as not a single person at the table speaks out in Marchant’s defense. In fact, Roy swears he can see flickers of amusement in some of their expressions.

Roy has to wonder how many of the men at this table genuinely support Marchant’s bid for the Führership, and how many are simply using him in the interest of ousting Roy without getting their own hands dirty. Based on the overall atmosphere, the latter seems more likely. He wouldn’t be surprised if they tossed Marchant to the dogs the second after Roy is cut from payroll. But that’s simply the nature of politics.

After Bradley’s downfall, the military as a whole was more than willing to proliferate propaganda exalting the benefits of democracy, but strictly on the condition that the armed forces retain sole control over the government and all its branches. Ultimately, the men sitting at this table – the ones who earned their ranks as a result of the regime change four years ago – are no less corrupt than their predecessors. They simply were never important enough to be granted seats at the table.

“The country still supports the military at large,” Marchant replies coldly. “Had Hess conceded, I would have received sixty-one percent of the vote.”

Roy can’t help but smirk at his childish need to slip in an empty brag.

“Forgive me,” Roy starts, “my knowledge of the law is somewhat thin; but I believe that obstruction of justice charges carry a ten-year statute of limitations.”

His words seem to catch Marchant off guard, as if citing a simple legal fact were really beyond Roy's capabilities.

“If you were to make the argument that I actively concealed Edward’s human transmutation attempt up until he left the military at sixteen, then if my math is correct, you only have six more years to file charges against me. It’s obvious that you’re too scared to touch me while Eckert is still in power, which means that if you fail to win the next election, your threats against me are worthless. So what’s to stop me from spending the next five years dedicating everything I have to keeping you and everyone else in this room out of the Führer’s mansion?”

He trails his eyes across the opposite side of the table, daring the men to voice their objections. Roy wants them to know that there’s no turning back from this. Should any of them make a bid for the throne, Roy will tear them down with every tool in his arsenal, civility and etiquette be damned.

Marchant leans in closer, visibly angered by Roy’s display of acumen.

“We said that we’re willing to grant Edward a pardon. Do not test us on that front. Depending on how difficult you intend on being, his execution may be collateral damage that we’re willing to accept. And don’t think that running to Eckert and begging for your pardons will do you any good. Legal precedent and statutes of limitations mean nothing under martial law.”

Those last two words seem to draw all the air out of the room. Some of the generals even hazard taking glances at each other, probably wondering if they heard him correctly.

Marchant doesn’t stop there though. No, he only digs his grave deeper.

“Maybe you’ve been able to keep the last three Führers in your back pocket, but sooner or later, a Führer will come to power who will have no qualms about sending you both to the firing squad. Maybe five years from now, maybe ten, maybe fifteen; but your luck won’t last forever.”

Whatever script was initially approved for this meeting, it’s clear that Marchant just spit on it. As Roy runs his eyes around the room, he can see that most of the generals are staring off in disparate directions, trying to restrain the quiet shock and dare Roy say it, embarrassment breaking through their expressions. Marchant may keep referring to them in the plural tense, but it’s clear that this stunt was his idea and his alone.

Threatening to declare martial law in order to execute him and Edward all for the sake of a campaign feud? It’s laughable. And the authority Marchant is attempting to inject into his tone is nothing short of cheap melodrama.

Even if Marchant magically managed to cinch the next election, there’s no way in hell he’d have the guts to follow through on his threats. He couldn't even summon the balls to fire Roy without fabricating a medical excuse. Threatening to dissolve Amestrian democracy all for the sake of a grudge is just a pathetic scare tactic; the desperate cry of a man with a reputation scarred beyond recovery.

Roy just gives a small laugh, the kind he knows everybody hates. “You really think you can intimidate me with baseless fear-mongering? I have to say I’m disappointed. You’ve had months to plan my ousting, and you couldn’t even come up with a plan that didn’t involve giving me a five-year grace period?” he says derisively while pushing the folder away in a show of distaste. “I’m afraid I must decline your offer. If you wish to fire me, then do so. Otherwise, I’ll be at my desk. Good day.”

He stands from the table, not bothering to give a salute. Then he walks in the direction of the door, maybe a bit slower than he would otherwise.

“Very well. You are hereby discharged for insubordination, disloyalty, and unseemly personal affairs. All veteran benefits are forfeit and you are permanently banned from reenlisting in the armed forces.”

Roy reaches forward to grab the handle of the door, his entire body filled with heady lightness.

“There, was that so difficult?” he asks with a smile, then strides out of the room and lets the door slam shut behind him.

He walks without awareness. One stretch of hallway after another, a predictable pattern of identical corridors guiding him towards the exit. He ignores everyone passing him by; names and faces he never went to the trouble of memorizing anyway.

He makes it to the parking lot in one piece, and after locating his car, he locks himself inside and allows himself to digest this new development.

It’s over. Finally, it’s over. It’s actually a relief. Weeks of stress and waiting, finally over.

The military is locked away in his past, and now he can move on and focus on whatever needs to happen next.

Maybe it’s just the overwhelming exhaustion, but he can’t restrain the delirious laughs that start to rise in his chest just as his eyes begin to sting with confused tears.

When they called him into the conference room this morning, he certainly didn’t anticipate such a display of pugnacity. Sure, he expected them to hold the tape over his head and lay out some stipulations, but actually threatening to execute Edward for the sake of keeping Roy out of a government job? It’s comical. If Marchant really thought such flimsy intimidation tactics could force him into retirement, then it’s easy to see why the man butchered the last election.

There’s no way in hell Marchant, or any prospective Führer for that matter would be stupid enough to charge Edward for his human transmutation attempts, even if they were within their power to do so. Even Bradley understood that dictatorships could only stand the test of time when founded on love rather than fear, and targeting Edward would only turn him into a martyr.

No, Marchant has no intention of touching Ed. He’s just using him as a playing card in this childish game. It’s sick that he would use Ed as a pawn in all of this, but again, Roy can’t say that he’s surprised.

Now that he thinks about it, Marchant is almost certainly the one who initially ordered Plannck to investigate his relationship with Riza. He’s also probably the one who contacted Manthen at the University, and the reporter at the Central Times. Just one long string of backhand maneuvers, hiding behind puppets in various attempts to shame Roy into withdrawing from the public eye.

It’s pathetic. So pathetic it makes Roy angry. His hands grip the steering wheel tight as his laughs turn into violent seethes vibrating from between his teeth.

It’ll be fine, he tells himself. Everything will be fine. Eckert can easily grant them both pardons for something like this. He would definitely face greater backlash on Roy’s part, but it’s doubtful that anyone in Amestris would protest his pardon of Ed, and Alphonse too for that matter. They would have to officially confess to their crimes first, but that’s entirely manageable.

However, if Eckert does grant Roy a pardon, then he won’t be able to serve in his cabinet due to conflicts of interest, but that’s fine. He can find work elsewhere. At this point he doesn’t even care about prestige or authority; he’ll throw himself into any public service job willing to take him. He’ll type up newsletters from his typewriter at home. He’ll canvas the streets, organize rallies; hell, maybe he should follow Chris’ lead and go into information brokering; anything that will prevent Marchant and his colleagues from pulling this country back a single day in time.

 

But what about Ed?

 

What about Ed?

Ed will be fine. From every angle, he’ll be fine.

But what if that isn’t enough?

Say Eckert grants them both pardons, and resolves them of all potential legal consequences, even then will Ed be able to maintain any peace of mind so long as Roy continues putting himself in jeopardy?

Because there’s no end in sight. The rest of Roy’s life will be an upward battle for all those stupid ideals that keep him up at night. Roy will be fighting tooth and nail until his heart stops beating. He simply doesn’t know how to exist in any other state. He could never find satisfaction in Dr. Marcoh’s noble philosophy of quietly helping one person at a time. No, Roy needs to see progress on a tangible scale. He needs to see the numbers charted out in laws, statistics, treatises, history textbooks. He needs to bury himself in the fabric of this country and gnaw at it like a parasite until it’s absolutely perfect.

It's an impossible goal. A cruel ideal. And whether he likes it or not, he will always have enemies, plenty of whom will wish him dead.

Can Ed stay with him through all of that? Can Ed find happiness whilst carrying the knowledge that Roy will very likely die from unnatural causes?

Ed is not weak. Roy has to keep reminding himself of that. He is not weak. He’s the strongest person Roy has ever come to know.

He just endured too much as a child, which Roy is honestly partially responsible for. All those years when he should have been absorbing the world around him, learning and growing with the natural pace of his brain and body; but instead he was forced to blanket himself in scar tissue, layer upon layer of trauma quietly but permanently altering the fabric of his brain. 

But Ed still has a choice. And if staying with Roy means resigning himself to a life of chronic distress, then is staying really in his best interest?

Roy can’t leave this foundation he’s built. If what Ed really needs is a life free from the unforgiving stress of this maelstrom called politics, then Roy won’t be able to follow him. He needs to stay here. He needs to break himself against the white marble facade standing before him and pull apart the pieces until they crush him. That’s his burden in life. One that he can’t force Ed to share.

No, he needs to stop thinking this way. He can’t let himself get lost in thought like this, trying to make decisions on Ed’s behalf.

He has to remind himself that Ed is still in the early stages of learning how to manage his mental illness. He’s only been on medication for two months, and this most recent episode has only been going on for a week. For all they know, this most recent flare up could be nothing more than his body reacting poorly to the new chemicals being introduced to his system.

Ed is more than capable of growth and adaptation. He’s only twenty. This is just the beginning. He’ll get better. Even if it’s a long road ahead, Roy can’t doubt for a second that he will get better.

It’s 10:45 now. His appointment with Eckert is at noon. That’s just enough time for him to drive back to Knox’s place and check in on Ed. But hell, he can’t tell Ed about what happened this morning. Not until he has a chance to sort everything out with Eckert. Fuck, he hates that he has to resort to concealing information for Ed’s own good. He hates everything about this situation. And while he knows that he has to keep moving, he’d like nothing more than to stop time and rest for a while. Just for a day. A night. God, he’s just so fucking tired.

So he sits in the car, staring at nothing in particular, waiting until it grows too late to drive back to Knox’s place.

He still has no idea what he’s going to say to Eckert, but he really shouldn’t make any substantial decisions without talking things over with Ed first. They’re definitely overdue for a very long, difficult conversation. Maybe several. Maybe their last.

11:49.

Just as he’s about to reach for the handle, he hears a rap on the passenger window, nearly causing him to let out an undignified yelp.

“Can I come in?” Riza asks with a hint of amusement.

Fuck, she just took ten years off his already dismal life expectancy.

“Sorry to startle you,” she apologizes after Roy reaches over to unlock the door.

“Don’t sneak up on me like that,” Roy pants. “I’m in a very fragile state.”

“I noticed. I’m glad I found you though. I was worried when you didn’t come back to the office.”

While talking, she reaches into her pocket and pulls out a small unmarked envelope, neatly sealed.

“This arrived in your inbox about twenty minutes ago. Discreetly hidden with some other paperwork of course.”

Roy scrutinizes the thin envelope. It’s amazing that after a day like today, a simple slip of paper can still rouse a substantial amount of fear.

“Thank you,” he says, taking it from her hand.

Before he has a chance to second guess himself, he tears it open and unfolds the note inside.

 

_Roy,_

_I just had a very enlightening conversation with Major General Armstrong. I do apologize for all the trouble you’ve been subjected to these past couple of weeks. But rest assured, I have a vested interest in your security._

_I want to propose rescheduling our meeting for next Monday, as I think Edward should attend as well, considering that some of my colleagues have decided to involve him in this whole fiasco. But perhaps we should meet somewhere a bit more discreet. General Armstrong has offered the use of her estate. Would dinner at eight Monday night suit the both of you?_

_-Führer Eckert_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please be gentle, I'm also very fragile.


	14. Decisions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I procrastinated on this chapter so hard I wrote three good omens fics in the interim.

After getting Al back, his life was going to be perfect. How could it not be?

That’s the promise that kept him moving. Kept him sane. Kept him functional.

Once they were whole again, he would take nothing for granted.

But shortly after the Promised Day, he started to catch himself slipping into ungratefulness. He’d frustrate himself over small irritations. Or mope over stupid inconveniences. Or sometimes he’d just feel sad for no good reason. Maybe he didn’t get enough sleep. Or couldn’t find the book he wanted. All it took was one small hitch to drive him into a state of neutral discontentment.

But whenever he felt himself slipping, he’d yank himself back. Berate himself for being so ungrateful. He could bask in self-pity when the good times were over. But for the time being, life was as good as it was going to get, and if he didn’t appreciate every second of it, he’d regret it later down the line.

But as the months dragged on, he started to grow lazy. Eventually the mental gymnastics became too demanding, and he gave up on his efforts to guilt-trip himself into happiness. Instead he let the exhaustion, anxiety, and hopelessness have their way, and smothered himself in shame for doing so.

He supposes that growing up means accepting that pure happiness is just as unattainable as immortality. It can never exist in any concentrated form. Because beneath the happiness, there’s always a chronic, paralyzing certainty that it won’t last forever.

But at this point, he’ll gladly settle for something less than happiness.

According to Roy, they are fundamentally “safe.” Whatever that means. At the very least they don’t seem to be in any immediate danger of arrest, and it seems like Eckert is prepared to grant them pardons if things get any worse.

And Ed believes him.

He believes that Roy is telling the truth, and not just fabricating assurances to keep him placated.

That’s a good sign at least. Yesterday he probably would’ve accused Roy of lying.

He’s still terrified. Terrified as a lost child. But it’s different from his regular brand of hysteria. It’s not the kind of fear that manifests in dizzy spells and chemical spikes. No. Rather, it’s a quiet sort of disconnect. A sense of apprehensive waiting. A certainty that no matter how things play out, their lives will never be as happy as they were before. It’s this feeling that they’ve finally lost everything, even though very little has objectively changed.

They still have their house. They have their books. They still have money, a handful of friends, and a home out in Risembool should everything deteriorate beyond recovery.

That’s more than enough to be grateful for, right? After all, people have built happy lives on far less.

And maybe it’s selfish of him to feel entitled to more.

The sun is setting by the time they give their thanks to Dr. Knox, who just waves them off in his usual manner.

And then they drive home.

It’s only been eleven days since they said goodbye to their house, but it feels like months. The entryway is freezing, and Ed swears he can see a thin layer of dust coating the shelves, although it was probably there before they left.

The kitchen is empty apart from some cans and bottles they left in place, knowing they wouldn’t go bad for a long while. So for dinner they heat up some unsatisfying canned soup and chew on some crackers that are on the cusp of going stale.

Ed wants to talk. About anything. But there’s a barrier bolted over his mouth, forcing him to second-guess every word. An unshakeable fear that one wrong syllable will be the final cut that sends him out onto the street.

He knows that at this point he shouldn’t think so little of Roy. If Roy truly wanted him gone, he would have dropped him long before any of this started. But still, it’s impossible to discredit the possibility that Roy is only keeping him around because he’s all that he has left.

So he says nothing, and Roy does the same.

It’s nearly midnight by the time he finally gets around to unpacking his suitcase, but all he finds are a few pieces of clothing crushed beneath stacks of bent and battered papers along with several dozen photographs creased on all corners. Overcome with shame, he reverently lays each item on the floor, trying to organize and flatten the victims of his mistreatment.

At least he remembered to pack his notebook; the one containing all of his translations, which probably no one else will ever read.

Suddenly he recalls what he was working on mere hours before the interrogation. The calculations he was so desperate to finish. The gift he wanted to present to Roy should the worst happen.

He supposes now is as good a time as any.

Slowly, he leaves the bedroom and walks toward the library. His hands are trembling and his armpits sweating. He feels almost as nervous as the first night he stayed here. Back when he made the decision to knock on Roy’s door and lay himself bare.

He doesn’t knock this time, but he does linger outside, hoping that Roy can see the shadow of his feet beneath the doorframe.

Then with a racing heart, he pushes it open, and takes in the sight of Roy sitting on the old couch pressed against the far wall. Not reading, just sitting, and now staring up at him as he lingers in the doorway.

“Hey,” Ed says, awkwardly holding the notebook against his chest. “So, I don’t know if this means anything anymore, but I may have figured out a way to transfer your alchemy.”

There’s a beat of silence as Roy’s eyebrows raise in surprise.

“Really? That was fast.”

“I mean, I definitely figured out a way to inhibit it. Transferring it might take some more trial and error.” While talking, he hesitantly moves toward the couch and takes a seat on the opposite end, even though he’d like nothing more than to curl up against Roy’s side. But instead he sits perfectly straight and obediently flips open his notebook, like a child preparing to read his homework aloud.

“Alchemy was taught really widely in Xerxes. Pretty much anyone with a basic education learned enough to get by. So they needed to figure out a way to prevent slaves and prisoners from transmuting their way to freedom. So they’d tattoo this array on their foreheads.”

He hands his notebook over to Roy, presenting the large matrix sketched onto the page.

“It automatically counteracted any type of transmutation they tried to perform. And if they cut it and managed to escape, everyone could easily identify them as a runaway. Thankfully they phased the practice out before Hohenheim’s time, otherwise he would have had a much rougher time blending in.”

He pauses as Roy takes a moment to analyze the array, so deceptive in its simplicity.

“But anyway, if you really wanted to give up your alchemy, all you’d have to do is give yourself this tattoo. Maybe somewhere easy to hide. It’s a simple array, so you can get it pretty small. And if you ever wanted your alchemy back, all you’d have to do is cut it.”

Roy doesn’t give any response; his silence only amplifying Ed’s anxiety.

Isn’t this what he wanted? Isn’t this enough?

“And if I wanted to give it to you?” Roy asks softly, nearly causing the tears straining against Ed’s eyes to spill over.

He honestly can’t believe that after everything that’s happened, Roy still wants to give him such a gift. It’s difficult enough trying to make sense of why Roy hasn’t forced him out of the house. Again, Ed knows that it’s cruel to think such things, but he can’t help it. It’s simply impossible for him to suppress his certainty that Roy is only keeping him around out of some distorted sense of obligation. Or because he sees Ed as the pitiful consolation prize at the end of the game. Not even a prize, just a token. Something small and useless. Good for sex, but not much else. A fraction of a companion. Something that can provide reliability but no happiness. A liability that will cycle back around to hurt them both again and again.

Maybe that’s his appeal. Maybe Roy is only keeping him around as a source of penance. Because he simply believes that Ed is the most he deserves.

“There’s this Xerxian legend,” he replies, clearing his throat and blinking away the tears in his eyes. “About this cult leader who convinced all his followers to give him their alchemy through tattooing arrays on their bodies. Then he used that power to tear down mountains and pull up islands and a lot of other bad shit. But when his followers saw what was going on, they all cut their tattoos and he was left with nothing. Obviously it’s just a myth. But all myths have a grain of truth to them, right?”

He reaches over to gently take the notebook from Roy’s hands, and nearly shudders when their fingertips brush against each other.

“Or at least that’s what my father thought,” he says, flipping several pages back. “It came up a lot in his notes. I think this was back when he was still spitballing ideas for how to take down Father, so he was doing a lot of research on various ways to cut off people’s alchemy. The bastard never finalized any of his ideas, but he left enough behind that I think maybe I could figure something out.”

He scans over his scribbled notes. Truth be told, all the information he needs is right here. The concept really isn’t that complicated, and he suspects that Hohenheim was only a few calculations away from the answer before deciding to abandon the idea altogether once he realized that trying to get a tattoo on Father’s skin sack was a categorically stupid idea.

It almost feels like fate that the matter would circle back around a generation later under such different circumstances.

“But in all honesty,” Ed says softly, “even if I manage to figure it out, I don’t think I could take your alchemy. Not even through a low-commitment tattoo job.”

“Because of fear of a rebound or your ethical code?”

“Both. But closer to the latter. I gave up my alchemy in exchange for Al. Getting it back feels like cheating.”

Roy leans in closer, staring over his shoulder at the equations and scribbles littered across the page. It’s amazing that Roy can decipher it at all considering that his handwriting stopped maturing around the age of twelve.

“So, by that logic, is having automail cheating?”

Ed feels something in his brain shift out of alignment. Like a joint popping out of place. He feels like someone just called out his lie in the middle of a debate, even though he had no awareness that he was lying in the first place.

“It’s not the same,” he says weakly, even though he can’t come up with a decent defense.

“Why not? You traded your arm for Al’s soul, then replaced it with automail. So if I gave you my alchemy through a tattoo, then it sounds like at best it would be a permanent loan. So how would that be any different from having automail?”

 _Because bodies are irrelevant to the soul,_ he almost says, but restrains himself to avoid wading too far into the thorn bush of religion.

“Because alchemy is more important,” he says instead. “Because people lose limbs and organs all the time and it’s just a part of life. They’re just lumps of tissue.”

“Yes, that’s true. But they’re lumps of tissue that your mother grew out of nothing.”

Ed feels something akin to whiplash at those words.

That’s right. His mother. The one who gave him his cells and marrow, synapses and ligaments. Pieces of her own matter that she passed on to him. He never thought of his body in that context before. And for the first time in years, he feels a twinge of sorrow for the leg he permanently lost.

It doesn’t matter though. At this stage, the metaphysics are meaningless.

“I made this whole speech to Truth. About how I don’t need alchemy because people are what’s important. I feel like I’ll wind up in hell if I walk back on that speech.”

Well, so much for avoiding dragging religion into this.

“You said you don’t believe in hell.”

That’s right. He did say that, but he can’t remember when. After a year, conversations tend to blur and fade.

“Yeah, well, for this I think they’d carve out a special place just for me.” He tries to raise his pitch just enough to make it sound like a joke, but he doubts it’s convincing.

Of course he believes in hell. How could he not? And if he blatantly stepped out of line and cheated the bargain he made with Truth, then no, he wouldn’t discredit the possibility of being forced to pay for it in the afterlife.

“So if people are what’s important, then why not use your alchemy to help them? That seems to be the path you’re on now.”

“Yeah, in a perfect world that’d be nice. But I don’t think Truth puts too much stock into charity clauses.”

He wishes it could be that easy. He wishes he could believe in a kind and benevolent deity. One that punishes the wicked and rewards the just. But ironically, he’s learned that equivalent exchange is never that black and white.

And Roy must know that too.

Where can the discussion go from here? What can Roy possibly say that will alter his fundamental and involuntary beliefs? He’s always hated faith-based arguments, and never imagined that one day he’d find himself in the position of the defender.

“This is all theoretical anyway,” he huffs, flipping his notebook shut. “I don’t even know if I’d be able to figure it out.”

“You could. If you wanted to that is.”

“That’s the thing. I do want to. I want to so fucking badly.”

The absence of his alchemy is something that gnaws at him day and night. Sometimes he’ll wake up in the morning and for a few blissful moments forget that it’s gone. And now that the answer is sitting here in his lap, maybe just a few test trials away from completion, he feels like he’s eleven again, trying to resist the urge to start assembling wings of wax.

“It’s stupid, but I really didn’t think I’d miss it so much. I thought it’d be like giving up another limb. Like sure, it’d be stupidly inconvenient, but it wouldn’t change me as a person.”

Roy already knows all of this. Ed has cried about it on more than several occasions. He’s not sure why he feels the need to repeat himself ad nauseam. And why it makes him feel like he’s recounting the death of a loved one every single time.

“I feel like I got hit in the head and it knocked my IQ in half. And yeah, I know that not being able to transmute doesn’t make me any less intelligent. But it’s like being fluent in a language in my head that I can’t speak a word of. And whenever people around me speak it, I feel like absolute shit.” His voice ebbs and breaks. Fuck, it’s been nearly four years since all of this happened. He should be desensitized to it by now.

“And I keep trying to find other things to fill the gap, but so far, I’ve got nothing.”

No, stop it, he berates himself. He has to keep things in perspective. If he’s crying over something as inconsequential as alchemy, at least that’s better than crying over all the shit that went down in Roy’s meeting today. That’s got to count for something. Even though he’s learned by now that his brain doesn’t give a shit about perspective. Everything is an emergency. Everything is the worst possible outcome. And as soon as he gets over one thing, another will rise out of nowhere to take its place.

Roy reaches over to grasp his shoulder and pull him closer, causing him to shudder from both surprise and relief. God, it feels like they haven’t touched each other in ages. Every day has felt like a year, and he’s aged just as quickly. He feels a decade older, yet also so pathetically young. He feels vulnerable and exposed, the stress of everything resurrecting childhood associations that he’s tried to bury for so long.

“What about children?” Roy asks softly. “Would that help fill the gap?”

Ed goes stone-still beneath his hand.

“Are you really ready to have that conversation?” he laughs nervously, hastily pressing his knuckles against his eyes to staunch the tears.

“No. Not remotely.”

“Good, me neither. And since we’re both on the same page, can we take a raincheck?”

Roy doesn’t immediately respond, causing Ed to grow restless. Maybe he should explain that he’s not trying to be evasive. It’s just that he feels like he’s one breath away from his lungs caving in, and prying open that can of worms might push him farther than he can handle.

“Sure,” Roy finally says. “I suppose we have much more immediate things to worry about.”

That’s right. More immediate things. It does seem ridiculous to be discussing children when their livelihoods are on the line and the military could swallow them up at any second.

But still, he feels like he owes Roy some sort of answer. After the way he was acting around Trysta all week, who knows what conclusions have fermented in Roy’s head?

“I’m not trying to brush you off because I want to be an asshole. I just genuinely don’t know how I feel.”

Honestly, his own confusion is the only thing he’s certain of.

He loves children. That’s not where he finds himself wavering. He didn’t realize how much he loved them until he had to hold Trysta for hours on end. Until his arms grew tired and his eyes weary. And through all the searing pain tearing apart his brain matter, he could find some peace in watching her flex her tiny fingers. And the way she would stick out her tongue and flail her fists. Her soft sighs and agitated grunts. The raw emotion of holding her against his chest and feeling her body swell and deflate like a little machine.

And he misses her. It’s only been a day since he last held her, but he’s already afraid that she’s grown in his absence. That her features have changed. Maybe she’s lost more of her hair and maybe her eyes still haven’t settled on their final color. And maybe he’ll never see her again. Never hold a newborn again. Never get the chance to call himself a father, and fuck, why does that thought hurt so much?

Or maybe that’s the appeal. Maybe the only reason he wants children is because he knows they’re the one thing he’ll never be allowed to have.

And yet, to add contradiction upon contradiction, the thought of being a father also fills him with a primordial dread on par with his fear of death.

He sniffs up the snot in his nose and blinks his eyes tight, causing two tears to run down his cheeks.

“In theory, yes, I want kids,” he chokes out. “But in practice, I don’t know.”

That’s really the most he has to offer. He doesn’t want to make any statements or promises that he’ll regret later down the line.

“What about you? Do you want kids?” he asks, desperate for the misdirection.

Roy goes rigid at the question, and quickly glances away to stare at the wall, in the way he does when he’s trying to select his words very carefully.

It suddenly occurs to Ed that he has no clue where Roy falls on the issue. In the entire year they’ve been together he can’t recall a single time that Roy has expressed an opinion on children, either positive or negative, and at this point it’s almost absurd that they’ve never talked about it.

And honestly, Ed’s not sure what scares him more: that Roy’s answer will be yes or no.

“I did before Ishval,” he replies, still staring at the wall. “In a very vague, abstract sense.”

“And now you don’t?”

A nervous smile crests Roy’s face.

“Would you shove your metal foot up my ass if I said it’s complicated?”

Ed forces out a small laugh. He really can’t grate on Roy for being evasive when they’re both on the same level.

“And where do the complications come in? You don’t have to give me a dissertation. If you just don’t think you’d be happy with kids, that’s a good enough answer.”

“No, it’s not that. I like kids. As a teenager I always imagined I’d have at least one someday. But now… I’m terrified that any child I raise will grow up to hate me.”

Ed’s mouth falls open a bit in shock. Roy didn’t even need to pause to formulate his thoughts. The words were already queued in his head.

“For what?”

“Genocide.”

“Oh.” The single syllable falls from his lips, weak and inadequate. “Okay, that’s fair.”

What else can he possibly say in response to that? He wishes he could assure Roy that his fears are irrational. But no, Roy’s right. And trying to downplay the severity of his crimes would just be an insult to Roy himself.

“And what about you?” Roy asks. “Can I bet on black that it has something to do with your father?”

Ed feels a sharp anger coil beneath his diaphragm, but he tries to choke it back.

“No, it has nothing to do with him,” he replies, maybe a bit too sharp. “I mean, I’m sure it ties back to him in some way or another ‘cause what of my issues don’t. But no, I’m not scared of walking out on my kids or being a shitty dad.”

No, he’s not scared of turning out like his father. That much he’s sure of.

So then what the hell is he so scared of?

He likes children. They make him happy. He has a natural instinct to put others before himself and he doesn’t even mind the sound of crying all that much. There are plenty of people in the world with worse qualifications who go on to be parents.

So why does he find himself running up against a wall?

It’s something powerful. Something debilitating. Something that makes the thought of one day holding his own child a scene straight out of a never-ending nightmare.

Suddenly, it clicks.

“I’m terrified of losing a child.”

There’s no hesitation in his voice. No second-guessing. It’s so simple once it finally registers, and he feels stupid for not connecting the dots earlier.

“I was terrified this whole past week that Trysta might die. And I’m scared that if I have a kid, it’ll just mean spending the rest of my life trying to keep myself from going manic. And if my kid did die, I don’t think I could survive that. I mean, I’ll definitely outlive you, and I’m cool with that. No offense, but when you die I’ll get over it. But not my kid. I know it’s something that a lot of parents have to go through, but I don’t think I could.”

The words pour out of him without restraint, his pitch growing higher. The reality of this realization catching up with him in real time, wringing him out and bleeding him dry.

Roy sure takes his sweet time responding. He seems genuinely blindsided by Ed’s admission, as if the anxiety of losing a child were a completely foreign notion.

Ed honestly doesn’t know how Roy can exist inside his own head without caving under the pressure of the world he’s built for himself. How can he go about his day making all these life or death decisions without ever considering death as a potential outcome? It’s admirable, if unrelatable.

“That’s a very common fear,” Roy finally says.

“It can’t be that common since everyone keeps reproducing.”

“Well, it probably doesn’t manifest for most people until they already have children and don’t have a choice in the matter. So I’m glad you’re aware of it this early on.”

Ed supposes that’s true. God, what a nightmare that’d be. To only discover in the aftermath of having children that your unconditional love would always be tainted by crippling fear, all concentrated on a barely-sentient creature with no concept of mortality.

Roy’s hand is still on his shoulder. Firm and immobile. The muscles in his arm must be getting tired by now.

So Ed decides to follow through on exactly what he wants. He shrugs his hand off and shifts closer to lay his head on Roy’s shoulder.

Fuck, how did they end up here? In this situation, this conversation. How many events and accidents and coincidences had to take place to bring them right here? The Fullmetal Alchemist and the Flame Alchemist debating the pros and cons of having children together. Reality truly is stranger than fiction.

“I didn’t actually want to adopt her,” Ed says after taking a few moments to indulge in the silence. “I mean, sure, it was nice to think about, with our lives falling apart and everything. But realistically, I knew it wasn’t in the cards.”

That’s not completely honest. There were stretches of time where he found himself praying that her mother would never return. Where he would lose himself in daydreams of taking her back to Risembool and watching her crawl around the grass while trying to keep her from shoving sticks in her mouth. But then a second later, he’d come crashing back down to reality, and those daydreams would vanish amidst waves of panic and white noise. He could barely enjoy her presence most of the time. All his energy was spent on tasks like trying to make it across the room, keeping his breathing steady, resisting the urge to curl up under the blankets and press his hands tight over his ears.

No, he knew it never would have worked in the long-term. And yet, that visceral anger he felt upon seeing her mother is still frothing around the corners.

“You’d make a wonderful parent,” Roy says gently. “If you ever decided to be.”

If he ever decided to be. He supposes that is one – and maybe the only – positive aspect of not being attracted to women. He doesn’t have to worry about accidentally falling into fatherhood. If it ever happens, it will be entirely his choice.

However, his choices are still brutally limited.

There’s no way the government will ever let him legally adopt a child. Or be a foster parent. Maybe in the distant future. A future where Roy’s strain of ideology ultimately wins out. But how likely is it that they’ll progress that far within his lifetime?

That’s another reason why the prospect of taking Trysta was so appealing. He could’ve just taken her. Never reported that she was abandoned. Raised her out in the countryside where everything is so off the record that social workers never come to call.

But no, that’s not an option anymore. And he’ll probably never stumble across another similar opportunity.

But maybe it’s for the best that she’s gone. Now he’ll never have to confront that soul-wrenching fear of finding her dead in her crib.

And maybe that’s something he should be grateful for.

“I don’t know if it’s worth it,” he sighs. “I feel like the whole ‘better to have loved and lost’ thing is a good outlook when it comes to easy breakups. But with kids, I think I’d rather not have any than deal with the possibility of losing just one.”

“You might change your mind at some point.”

“Yeah, I might. That tends to be how minds work.”

Roy sighs, and Ed breathes in time with the expansion of his chest.

“I don’t think I’ll ever change mine,” Roy says, quiet and apologetic.

Silence falls over them. It feels like they’ve hit a wall, just like with their discussion about alchemy. They’ve followed the strands to their natural end, which was the purpose all along.

That’s what adult do, isn’t it? Have painful conversations with the intent of reaching mutual conclusions? That’s what they’ve done, but there’s no joy in the settlement. He feels no sense of happiness in accepting that he’ll probably live a childless life. Or affirming that he will never get his alchemy back. He just feels drained. Like there’s no future ahead of him. And maybe there isn’t.

He grabs Roy’s hand and interlaces their fingers, unsure what else to do.

“I know I can’t give you any guarantees about your kids not hating you, but for what it’s worth, everyone, including me, knows what you did in Ishval, and we still love you.”

Roy lets out a breathy laugh. “And everyday I’m confounded as to why.”

“Because, you’re doing everything you can to make it better. You didn’t take the easy way out. And if it weren’t for you, we’d probably still be under Bradley. We definitely wouldn’t be having democratic elections. And even now, you’re not quitting, even though you easily could.”

“Yeah,” Roy hums, absent-mindedly stroking Ed’s knuckles as his gaze locks onto the far wall. Ed waits patiently for what he plans to say next. His expression always goes blank when the gears in his head are turning.

“I need to stay in the government,” he states firmly. “In whatever capacity I can.”

Ed shifts away from his shoulder to shoot him a confused look.

"Was that ever in dispute?" he asks, genuinely perplexed. Roy certainly never gave any hint that he was planning on calling it quits.

"So you'll stay with me? Even if my work gets more stressful? More dangerous? Can you still be happy with me?"

His voice sounds almost desperate, blind-siding Ed with his sudden shift in demeanor.

"That's what I'm doing right now, isn't it?"

"I mean," he pauses, shifting in place, "you don't think you might be happier someplace else? In a less stressful environment?"

A cold sweat breaks across Ed's entire body, his heart twisting and caving in like scrap metal.

"Is this your reverse psychology way of trying to get me to break up with you?"

"No, it's not that at all," Roy answers quickly, shaking his head. "I'm just saying that... I want what's best for you. And if staying with me is going to make your life miserable, then you should do whatever's in your best interest."

Ed can feel his heart palpating against his ribs. Where could Roy have gotten the idea that he had any interest in leaving? He would never leave of his own volition. Roy must know that by now. Does Roy genuinely think he's so dysfunctional that the only way he can live a happy life is by exiling himself to while away his time in the countryside like an old horse being retired to the pastures? Is he really that weak? That damaged?

Of course he is. Roy's witnessed it firsthand.

Ed tries to slot his feelings into alignment, to suppress his natural impulse to interpret this as an attempt on Roy's part to ship him back out east so he can carry on with his career unburdened.

No, he has to take Roy's words at face value. Of course he just wants what's best for him, even if it's a misguided offer.

"Here's the thing," Ed says, trying to plot his words carefully. "My head is fucked. It'll probably be fucked for the rest of my life. And moving back to Risembool and becoming a dairy farmer isn't going to change that. The two breakdowns I had before this, they were based on practically nothing. My brain was just inventing things for me to be miserable about. If I go back out east, I'll probably just stress myself out over bed bugs, or flooding, or god forbid, the fucking harvest. I figure I might as well stay here with you and stress over things that are actually worth it."

"Being stressed over bed bugs isn't the same as being stressed over assassination."

Roy's words catch him off guard. Both in their severity and the twinge of fear lacing his voice.

"You obviously haven't stayed in as many sketchy inns as I have. Those fuckers will haunt your nightmares."

Thankfully, Roy gives him a small laugh.

"I just don't want you making anymore sacrifices for me."

Ed can't help but smile at the raw absurdity of that statement.

"You're not allowed to say shit like that. You sacrificed everything for me. Literally, everything. Not that I'm staying with you because I feel like I owe you or anything, but I do kind of owe you."

Ed immediately regrets his words when he sees Roy's expression sink with pity.

"I know I said this earlier, but what happened in the interrogation isn't your fault. It's long been common knowledge that I covered for your human transmutation attempt. Marchant and the others would've pulled this stunt regardless."

God, just bringing up the interrogation causes his chest to sink with humiliation. Of course Roy is right, but still, he's never in his life felt as weak and pathetic as he did during those twenty-odd minutes trapped in that claustrophobic room.

"Yeah, but still, I practically gift-wrapped them a smoking gun."

"Even if you refused to answer they would've exploited that too. Same if you refused the interview altogether. Honestly, I just glad you're feeling better today. You really scared me yesterday."

Ed can't help but flush with embarrassment as he's overcome with renewed guilt for putting Roy through that ordeal.

And the worst part is it'll probably happen again. And again and again and again. How many times can he expect Roy to endure something like that? If their roles were reversed Ed probably would've reached the end of his tether months ago.

"What I have, it's serious, isn't it?" Ed asks, knowing the question is rhetorical.

Roy reaches up to place a hand on his head and stroke the back of his skull, as if he could heal his brain with the same techniques that one uses to treat a sore muscle.

"Yeah, it's serious. But I wouldn't say it's abnormally severe or rare. And I can't read the future, but I firmly believe that it won't be this bad forever. My early twenties were the most miserable, excruciating period of my entire life. But you're already off to a better start than me. At the very least, you're not in the military."

"Neither are you," Ed replies with a smile.

"Right. Isn't that strange? That's half my identity. Just gone."

"Half is generous. I'd say more like seventy-eight percent."

"I'll have to find some new hobbies."

They settle into silence, but Roy continues stroking his hair, which is greasy and knotted after days of poor care, and the oil on Roy's hand probably isn't doing him any favors. But it feels perfect, and Ed can almost pretend that he really is soothing his brain as if it were a strained muscle.

"I can't make any promises that I'll get better," Ed sighs. "But I'm kind of sick of making sacrifices. So if you're cool with it, I'd like to stick around. For as long as this works."

"And if I can never have kids?"

Ed can't help but go rigid beneath the gentle caress of Roy's hand.

It's weird. He just gave a whole speech detailing how he'll probably never be stable enough to endure the existential stress of raising a child. And yet for some reason, committing to that decision, revoking that choice, it just feels like another significant part of his future being stripped away.

Can he really tell Roy that it doesn't matter? After all, he's only been seriously deliberating it for the last eleven days. Roy's been thinking about it for the last twelve years. Shouldn't he allow himself at least a little more time?

He said he was tired of making sacrifices. But how much of a sacrifice is this really? Even if they break up, it's unlikely that he'll ever have the opportunity to be a father regardless. And even if the opportunity did arise, could he really in good conscience choose an unknown child over Roy?

No. Of course he couldn't.

"If we never have kids, then I'll make do with torturing Al's."

"Assuming that he doesn't have any baggage over being a parent."

"Al is the most well-adjusted mentally stable person on this planet and the next. Everyday he wakes up and thinks about nothing but the smell of sunshine and the taste of birdsong."

Roy gives a clipped laugh. "That fantasy is going to fall apart at some point or another."

"Yeah, I know. But let me dream in the meantime. Fuck, Al doesn't know about any of this. I haven't written to him since Rush Valley."

"Maybe I should write to him too. Apologize for dragging his brother into so much trouble."

"That's just your regular MO. Besides, I doubt he'll be all that surprised. I think we all knew this was inevitable at some point or another."

"I'm pretty sure your brother thought we'd break up long before going public."

"Yeah, that's fair. But let's be real, we both kind of did too."

"Hence our complete lack of planning for the bind we're in now."

"Yeah, our strategizing probably isn't gonna earn us any medals. But we'll figure it out. After all, we've survived worse."

 

* * *

 

 

Two days later, Ed opens the front door to grab the Sunday paper. It's the first time he's hazarded stepping outside since they returned home Friday evening, even though he's doing nothing more than bending down to pick up the newspaper laying on the top step.

But there, in bold type across the top fold, reads the headline:

 

**Brigadier General Roy Mustang Ousted by Senior Staff After Failed Attempt to Coerce His Resignation.**

**The decision to depose Mustang came shortly after he publicly announced his relationship with former State Alchemist Edward Elric, a senior official says.**

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [twitter](https://twitter.com/blissymbolics1) / [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/blissymbolics)


	15. Majority Vote

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is officially the shortest chapter. Only 3.2k words. Happy 2nd (technically 3rd) day of RoyEd Week!

Roy can understand the logic behind General Armstrong’s offer to rendezvous at her estate. The grounds are gated, guarded, and her mansion has a convenient subterranean tunnel leading straight into the garage.

However, Roy wouldn’t trust that tunnel to pass any construction regulations. The passage is nearly a two-mile trek beneath the city, and if the walls started to cave in, he wouldn’t trust his abilities to shield them from the impact.

So they settle for the more tactful approach of driving to Madame Christmas’ establishment. They park on the street and walk in through the main entrance. It’s only six o’clock, and the bar isn’t even open for business yet. Chairs are still stacked on the tables and the floors are slightly damp from recently being mopped.

They linger in Chris’ office for a while before discreetly slipping out the backdoor where one of the girls has allowed them the use of her car for the evening. After acclimating to the unfamiliar controls, Roy successfully pulls them out onto the street and in the direction of Armstrong Manor.

After entering through the kitchen door, they’re greeted by the smell of simmering pork and a friendly maid who takes their coats and ushers them into a small parlor room. Eckert and Armstrong are already sitting at a small, but elaborately carved wooden table, glasses of red wine at their side.

“You finally made it,” Armstrong remarks, even though they’re two minutes early. “Neither of you are allergic to shellfish, right? We’re having crab for the first course.”

Squaring his shoulders, Roy calmly walks toward her seat and tosses yesterday’s newspaper in front of her empty plate, the headline on full display.

“Can I hazard a guess that you were the senior official quoted on record?”

She gives no response, but there’s a quirk of a smile at her lips.

“A bit of warning would’ve been nice,” he says while pulling out the chair next to her and taking his seat.

“Consulting you would’ve been irresponsible. If the senior staff found any evidence that we were in correspondence they would use it to invalidate the report. Besides, I didn’t just sell my testimony to the highest bidder. I got in touch with a credible journalist at the Central Times over a week ago. And I approved the final draft of the article myself.”

Roy thought the writing style seemed familiar. No author was credited, but it wasn’t difficult for him to form an educated guess.

“Was this journalist Rebecca Ratdolt by any chance?

“Yes,” she replies, with an inflection that indicates she’s mildly impressed. “She said you and her had something of a falling out recently, and she expressed an interest in making amends. She said to tell you that she’s on standby if you ever need a reliable outlet.”

Roy can’t help but bristle with discomfort. He still feels a twinge of contempt for her after their last meeting, and he’s reluctant to dole out his trust so quickly. He’s thankful that the article expressed sympathy towards his situation, but he’s not ready to trust anyone beyond his immediate circle.

“I’ll consider it. But don’t you think you might’ve blown your cover with this stunt?” he asks, jabbing a finger onto the headline.

“Not necessarily. There were plenty of men in that room who despise you far less than I do,” she replies with a teasing lilt.

“So you do despise me then?” Roy replies, returning her playful trill in kind.

“Make no mistake, I despise you from your teeth to your toes. However, it seems that Marchant miscalculated and interpreted my disdain for your insufferable personality as legitimate resentment towards you as an individual. When he shared his scheme with me, I thought it best to play along and get in with his good graces. He didn’t need much convincing. I simply told him how unfair I found it that in the aftermath of the battle for Central you were hoisted onto a pedestal while I was left to rot in the north. There were men at that table with far lesser reasons for betraying you.”

Roy shoots her one of his trademark obnoxious smiles. Of course he knows that she harbors no ill will over returning to her post up north. They had discussed it at length after the Promised Day, and if she were truly unhappy with the arrangement, she would have knocked him down a peg long ago.

“I’ll forgive you for not consulting me about the article. But I won’t excuse your rudeness for neglecting to consult me about my dietary restrictions. I am allergic to shellfish.”

“Fitting for someone who’s most formidable enemy is water. I’ll tell the staff to bring you a salad.”

Before Roy can craft a witty comeback, Ed interjects.

“Hey, can I ask, why do higher ups keep trying to rope you into their evil conspiracies?” he asks, taking his seat between Roy and Eckert.

“I’ve stopped trying to analyze it at this point,” she replies with a shrug. “Now then, I have something else that I think you’ll find interesting.”

She reaches to her side and pulls out a large envelope. From it she extracts a roll of tape, and places it in the center of the table. It has no label or identifying marker, but Roy doesn’t need three guesses to tell what it is.

“Is that?”

“The full meeting, yes,” she replies smugly. “Including the prologue and epilogue you were tragically absent for. We’ve already discussed it,” – she glances at Eckert – “and unfortunately this tape can’t be used in any legal capacity, but it’s still good security to have in our back pocket.”

Roy could almost cry. And not just from the existence of the tape.

It’s now been two full weeks since they publicly announced their relationship, and thus far, Riza, Eckert, and now Armstrong have been the only allies to extend them any degree of aid and empathy. He’s still holding out hope that more will emerge from the woodwork eventually, but for the moment, support from her – someone he hardly knows – is overwhelming.

“Thank you. Truly, thank you.”

“Don’t give me thanks, give me ideas,” she says firmly. “You’re supposed to be the wunderkind mastermind. It’s time to pull yourself together and live up to your reputation.”

Roy flinches at her harsh tone, self-consciously shaking himself out of his sentimental stupor.

“Okay, well, the most important matter on the table is finding a way to exonerate Ed for his human transmutation attempt. My needs come secondary.”

“Normally I’d fight you on that,” Ed adds, ”but yeah, I’d really like to get out of being executed.”

Finally, Eckert raises his voice. “Well, lucky for you two, I served as a judge for thirty-nine years, and I have a plan. How familiar are you all with the official legislation regarding human transmutation?”

Roy tries to scrounge through his memory. He read about the law extensively after his first meeting with Ed, but that was almost ten years ago, and most of the details have faded with time.

“I can honestly say I’ve never read the fine print,” Ed answers before Roy can contribute.

“That’s because there’s very little fine print to begin with. In many ways, it occupies a legal category all its own. On paper, the law is woefully vague. It hasn’t been revised in over a century; presumably because the military wished to preserve its extralegal status.”

Roy discreetly shoots a knowing glance at both Ed and Armstrong, which they reciprocate. “Extralegal” indeed.

Eckert takes a sip of wine before continuing. “As the law stands now, all human transmutation cases go straight to the military courts, even if the defendant is a civilian. He or she can be executed without a trial, and the military isn’t obligated to submit any record of the case. Because of this, we have no idea how many individuals have actually been charged throughout history.”

Just as he finishes speaking, Roy hears a creak come from the door, and he quickly turns in his seat whilst instinctively pressing his gloved fingers together. But thankfully, it’s the same maid who let them in earlier, and she’s now holding the door open for an elderly woman pushing a cart full of plated food.

The four of them fall into objectively suspicious silence as the food is laid before them, with Armstrong only disrupting the quiet to tell the chef to bring him a salad as promised.

Once the chef and maid are several steps beyond the door, Eckert continues.

“My proposal is this: I will send a bill through Parliament that will reclassify human transmutation as a standard criminal offense, the same as any other. It should pass easily, as the majority of our representatives are eager to enforce anything that will curtail the military’s judicial oversight.”

“This change in the law will benefit you in one very important way.” Eckert turns toward Ed, causing him to straighten his posture. “It will prohibit Marchant from trying you in the military courts. Your case would have to go before a jury and be subject to public scrutiny. Marchant won’t be able to hide behind his secretive tribunals and sealed archives. This alone may be adequate enough protection. The last thing he wants is the publicity nightmare of putting you on trial for trying to resurrect your dead mother as an abandoned child.”

Ed glances at Roy, for confirmation or approval, he can’t be sure.

“Okay, that might cover me pretty well, but what about Roy? Marchant could still court martial him for covering for me.”

“Yes, that’s true. I have a plan on that front as well. But before I propose it, I would like to ask you a very candid question,” Eckert says to Ed, and even though his voice carries no threat, Roy can practically smell the cold sweat on Ed’s body.

“Okay,” Ed replies with a short nod.

“What you said in the interrogation, was all of it truthful?”

Ed’s face folds in confusion. Roy’s hands begin to sweat. An ominous chill floods his system, his defenses instantly spiking on high alert.

“Yes,” Ed responds with a perplexed lilt.

“Wait, what did you say in the interrogation?” Roy asks, suddenly worried that he missed something very important.

“Nothing I didn’t already tell you. I just told the truth, I swear,” Ed says, his pitch creeping high. “I didn’t lie about anything.” He sounds both offended and scared. Like he knows that he isn’t lying, yet doesn’t fully trust his own memory.

“So, Roy, you recruited him with full knowledge of what he did?”

Suddenly, Roy finds himself trembling on the witness stand.

“I’m afraid so.”

After a moment of intense scrutiny, Eckert lets out a small laugh.

“Why?” he asks, shaking his head a bit.

Fortunately, at that exact moment, the door opens again, and the maid remerges carrying a single plate. They resume their suspect silence as she places the salad down before him and then walks away, no doubt to return to the kitchen and indulge in gossip about whatever it is they might be discussing.

Roy stares down at the dish laid before him, still searching for the right words.

In all honesty, Eckert’s question is something that he’s been mulling over for a long time now.

If he were to stumble across Ed today, eleven and crippled, he most certainly wouldn’t put forward the same offer.

Roy was younger back then. Cockier. Consequences seemed foreign and abstract and rules were meant to be broken. He felt invincible to all the pain that was due to come his way.

“Because I wanted to help him,” he answers honestly. “And it seemed like he had given up on looking for help.” Roy looks to Ed, who is staring back at him almost nervously. “I know everyone thinks that I only recruited you to make myself look good, and yes, that thought did cross my mind. But I also knew that if your secret ever came out, there’s no way in hell I’d be able to claim plausible deniability. But I felt that helping you was worth the risk.”

Ed gives him a half-smile, and Roy turns back to Eckert, praying for his approval.

“Good,” the old man nods. “In that case, after I get this law through Parliament, I want you both to publicly confess.”

Roy’s body goes rigid and sweat breaks across his neck.

“Confess? To what exactly?”

“Exactly what you just said. That Edward committed human transmutation and you helped conceal it. And I don’t mean confess it in a court of law. The papers will do. It will help us curry sympathy with the public, and Marchant won’t be able to use your interrogation tape as blackmail any longer. But don’t confess immediately after I sign the bill. Give it a month or two. And if Marchant comes after you, which I highly doubt he will, I’ll grant you both pardons. However, in the likely event that he gives no response, there’s something I want from you, Roy.”

“Certainly,” he replies on autopilot, still trying to parse everything that Eckert has said thus far.

“I want to nominate you for a position in my cabinet.”

Roy feels his cognitive functions stutter. Even Armstrong seems to raise an eyebrow out of the corner of his vision.

Before Roy can ask any questions, Eckert continues. “I’m establishing a new branch within the Department of Justice. It’s called the Military Oversight Office, and I want you to serve as its second in command. Your duties would involve investigating military ethics violations and submitting your findings to the Office of the Inspector General. No one can say that you’re unqualified for the position, and I’m sure it’s something you would enjoy.”

Roy blinks a few times. Repeats the offer in his head, and tries to envision a future where all of that could fall into place.

“But my nomination would have to be approved by Parliament. Do you really think I can get a majority vote?”

“It’ll be close, mind you. The military sympathizers will vote against you overwhelmingly. And we’ll undoubtedly lose some on our side of the aisle who won’t be able to look past your personal affairs. But let me tell you, based purely on anecdotal evidence, your approval went up significantly after your ousting. Even those who are uncomfortable with your lifestyle generally agree that the military had no right to fire you for it. Many may dislike you personally, but most of them detest the military even more.”

Roy tries to quell the budding hope threatening to override his common sense. Eckert’s assurances are compelling, but Roy has no illusion that this plan will ever come to fruition. Sure, the Parliamentarian representatives may be paying lip service to his situation, but he doubts that they’ll follow through on their support when it comes time to put him in a position of power.

He doesn’t have that much faith in politicians.

But what other options does he have?

He looks to Ed, who just gives him a small nod of approval.

“Alright, I’ll accept the nomination. Is there anything else you need from us in the meantime?”

“For now, just lie low until I can get this bill through Parliament. Marchant will likely try to harass and intimidate you in the meantime. Keep a record of it and let me know if at any point you fear for your safety. And how are you fairing financially.”

“We’re fine,” Roy answers on instinct. “I grew up on the edge of poverty, so I’ve always spent well below my means. Even if they revoke my housing discount, I can still comfortably support us for at least two years.”

To be honest, even if they weren’t financially secure, he would never feel comfortable accepting money from Eckert. Or anyone for that matter. The shame of poverty has corrupted him too deep for that.

“It seems we have a plan then,” Eckert says before picking up his fork and taking a bite of crab, silently giving permission for everyone else to begin eating, even though the food is appropriately cold.

“I hate to throw a wrench in things,” Ed says, empty fork in hand. “But can’t you just, y’know, pardon us now? Why exactly do we need all this scheming?”

Roy is immensely glad that Ed had the guts to ask that question. The same thought has been running through his own head this entire conversation, but it felt too ungrateful to ask when Eckert was already offering them so many gifts on a silver platter.

“Because it would reflect poorly on all of us if I pardoned you both in a backroom meeting. You’re both young. You have brilliant careers ahead of you. I’m worried that pardoning you before you’ve even been charged with anything would tarnish your reputations beyond recovery. But if worst comes to worst, if they take you into custody before I can get this law off the ground, then don’t worry, I will ensure that you walk free.”

Roy can’t deny that Eckert’s line of reasoning makes sense. He looks to his side at Ed, trying to read his expression.

Roy knows that the next couple months could very well be a living hell for him. And if Roy were not involved, then Ed would probably have no issue requesting his pardon right then and there, to hell with some vague promise of a career he can’t even conceptualize.

Ever since they came out, Ed’s only priority has been survival. And it feels selfish of Roy to jeopardize that for the sake of his own ambitions.

But then again, pardoning them right now would harm Eckert's favorability as well, and Roy has to take his priorities into account too, especially since Roy already owes him a lifetime of debt.

“Ed,” Roy says, “Marchant knows that Eckert will pardon us if he tries to touch us. We don’t have anything to worry about.”

Ed gives him a small smile, and Roy can only hope that the eventual promise of security will be enough to keep him placated.

“Besides,” Armstrong interjects, “we still have the tape. Even if it can’t be used as evidence against Marchant in court, leaking it to the press would cause him quite a headache. I don’t imagine that threatening to execute the Alchemist of the People purely out of spite would play very well with the public.”

“You know, the more you help us, the more likely it is that you’ll get caught. And probably ousted yourself,” Roy says with his usual pedantic tone.

“That’s a risk I’m willing to take. My partner of fourteen years, she’s become quite infatuated with the two of you since you went public. She’d most certainly kill me if I let them get away with executing you.”

Roy pauses as he’s bringing a forkful of salad up to his mouth.

He has to admit that he’s surprised. Not that Armstrong has a female partner, but that she’s managed to keep it hidden for the last fourteen years.

She must be internally laughing at him and Ed for their pathetic incompetence. They somehow managed to let it slip after hardly more than a year.

“On that note,” Eckert drawls, “are we all in agreement?”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I don’t know shit about law. I don’t know shit about law. I only read books but I cannot law. Even if I’m reading a how to law book._


End file.
